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verminPoems
sometimes you wish things were different that every day wouldn't wake up the same homely person somehow you could be ****** into something less generic less like your life, where each boring second is dripping a canyon in your heart's ice age theorize that maybe you speak a hidden language something ancient, that can unlock dead secrets by virtue of how your eyes drift in a set of hexes if you drew white triangles on the right misty morning you'd wake up anew to a beautiful sun dawning and a garden of different faces to choose from pick one that smells of fresh rain on iron that never distorts into angry clouds spitting caustic words you dream about that perfect jawline and how the hair falls just right but then you remember oh ... this isn't my perfect picture, this is human this is bleeding broken bruised a flurry of imperfections a talented accident an impossibly improbable confluence of the shy words love speaks planted by chance abruptly lucky forcing a hand out of the ground to grasp the air that flees as though you knew this destination was perilous by virtue of murky precognition through your electric embryo as though your mother had muttered all the secrets before she killed you and sent you again through the white door to cold air so now you chant and you pose and you powder your nose forcing yourself behind glass into a frame stood up straight leering into the mirror just to steer yourself queerer fighting natural finesse [in compatible] dresses used to be so perfect under the knife you're worthless wishing in wells and walking on shells someday you just might reverse it
0
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:27 AM UTC
unbirthed
sometimes you wish things were different that every day wouldn't wake up the same homely person somehow you could be ****** into something less generic less like your life, where each boring second is dripping a canyon in your heart's ice age theorize that maybe you speak a hidden language something ancient, that can unlock dead secrets by virtue of how your eyes drift in a set of hexes if you drew white triangles on the right misty morning you'd wake up anew to a beautiful sun dawning and a garden of different faces to choose from pick one that smells of fresh rain on iron that never distorts into angry clouds spitting caustic words you dream about that perfect jawline and how the hair falls just right but then you remember oh ... this isn't my perfect picture, this is human this is bleeding broken bruised a flurry of imperfections a talented accident an impossibly improbable confluence of the shy words love speaks planted by chance abruptly lucky forcing a hand out of the ground to grasp the air that flees as though you knew this destination was perilous by virtue of murky precognition through your electric embryo as though your mother had muttered all the secrets before she killed you and sent you again through the white door to cold air so now you chant and you pose and you powder your nose forcing yourself behind glass into a frame stood up straight leering into the mirror just to steer yourself queerer fighting natural finesse [in compatible] dresses used to be so perfect under the knife you're worthless wishing in wells and walking on shells someday you just might reverse it
Written by
vermin
American
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:27 AM UTC
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