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The world is fake. An empty play dough world where all our heads are in clouds of derealization. We’ve lost our touch with reality running razors across our bellies. Our mind a shaking bath tub full of water and bubbles. Tap it. Ripple. Splash it. Wave. Shake in it. You’re gone in the tsunami Of bubbles over the side. You disrupted the peace. Now you’re cold among all the popping bubbles. You made the world a trembling earthquake of pain. And it will not have your ********    You are books left    alone on the library    tables. Scattered.    Disorganized. You are    a mess. You are frowned    upon. Nobody’s going to    pick you up. Well not    until someone who under    stands the code on your    spinal cord and    can handle you like a    problem, when you want    to be opened. And your    pages caressed and your    tears and rips cried over like    they should be. Have someone    finger your creased pages    as they read the heart breaking    parts.        But they put you back        in your a slot. Where        you “belong.”            And you sit there            silently screaming “learn me"
0
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
2.21.15
The world is fake. An empty play dough world where all our heads are in clouds of derealization. We’ve lost our touch with reality running razors across our bellies. Our mind a shaking bath tub full of water and bubbles. Tap it. Ripple. Splash it. Wave. Shake in it. You’re gone in the tsunami Of bubbles over the side. You disrupted the peace. Now you’re cold among all the popping bubbles. You made the world a trembling earthquake of pain. And it will not have your ********    You are books left    alone on the library    tables. Scattered.    Disorganized. You are    a mess. You are frowned    upon. Nobody’s going to    pick you up. Well not    until someone who under    stands the code on your    spinal cord and    can handle you like a    problem, when you want    to be opened. And your    pages caressed and your    tears and rips cried over like    they should be. Have someone    finger your creased pages    as they read the heart breaking    parts.        But they put you back        in your a slot. Where        you “belong.”            And you sit there            silently screaming “learn me"
I had a mental break. And this poem happened?
Lostkey
Written by
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
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