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i used to control and command - now, one day i started telling everyone that god ****** something must’ve gone wrong. My brain had been dissolved in the roaring circuitry that flows far within this skull beneath the skin… i’m playing tug-of-war with this rueful rolling mix of fading memories, truth blackens all vision while remorse burns introspection until blurred. i am helplessly helpless, no restoration. It’s uncensored, uncontained, and thoroughly problematic as whirlwinds of self-analysis trigger a flapping numb. It isn't a question of if, but “when will” the shadows be caught in the act… i’ve been marked it’s finished, done - And as result, i have No voice (it’s been turned off), there’s no strength of decency …And certainly no laughter. i bemoan, “There’s so much bitterness and bad memories consigned”…My ghostly scars are a potent drug, and i’m knocked to my knees. Yes, the ticking clock comes singing / all angry and accusatory. i bemoan, “That which is pushed eventually must fall over” And freedoms breath is cupped with this action, a suffocating squeeze, And maybe even… It’s all scary especially when i hear the question echo from your lips - What hurts? By “ooznozz”
0
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 5:13 AM UTC
Poem: A VERY LOW CEILING AND IN PLACES VERY DARK
i used to control and command - now, one day i started telling everyone that god ****** something must’ve gone wrong. My brain had been dissolved in the roaring circuitry that flows far within this skull beneath the skin… i’m playing tug-of-war with this rueful rolling mix of fading memories, truth blackens all vision while remorse burns introspection until blurred. i am helplessly helpless, no restoration. It’s uncensored, uncontained, and thoroughly problematic as whirlwinds of self-analysis trigger a flapping numb. It isn't a question of if, but “when will” the shadows be caught in the act… i’ve been marked it’s finished, done - And as result, i have No voice (it’s been turned off), there’s no strength of decency …And certainly no laughter. i bemoan, “There’s so much bitterness and bad memories consigned”…My ghostly scars are a potent drug, and i’m knocked to my knees. Yes, the ticking clock comes singing / all angry and accusatory. i bemoan, “That which is pushed eventually must fall over” And freedoms breath is cupped with this action, a suffocating squeeze, And maybe even… It’s all scary especially when i hear the question echo from your lips - What hurts? By “ooznozz”
ooznozz
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ooznozz
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 5:13 AM UTC
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