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stillhuman Apr 2022
It's poisonous claws
scratching up from the inside
of my chest, they open
a path of lurid squalor
festering the internal wounds
with rotting meat
that spreads from within
to the skin that crawls
and dies, cell by cell
into the empty stale air
surrounding our conversation

The words float
from one breath to another
without ever really landing
to a precise spot
of connection
They just mimic meanings
and thoughtfulness
when they are void of any feelings

There is no spark of life
no life itself
denied to us
by the putrid scent
we ignore the existence of
No knowledge of pain
or reality
just a dull sense
of immortality
as we still
like the dust suspended
motion our lips without sense
nor sense of self
Corroding second by second
by second 'til we
become dust ourselves
"Natura Morta" is the artistic genre of painting still life
It resembles us so much at times
stillhuman Dec 2021
My brain is soaked
in lukewarm squalor
stagnant it stays
the same darkened
soiled rotten pictures
and I wade
through murky water
of memories
and I
feel at home
Yet I survive in this state of mind

— The End —