It often happens that you find
some potato chips so irresistible
that you keep munching them
till your hand comes out empty of the packet.
Some desires are so engaging
that you do not worry about overindulging in them
till you realise how they have blanked your heart.
can be habit forming.
A **** with diction
addiction will provide
Therein lies the problem
engraved on a needle
thrown in a haystack.
A **** or addict
can only shoot up
in a barrel that smells
of dead fish for so long
before stagnant water
leaves a residue and
film that peels off
quicker than a
week long scab.
To search for clean cotton
resembles digging through
a trash can for ingredients to
prepare a five course meal.
Flatware covered in water spots
are placed on a napkin that
doesn't dare dab chapped lips.
Fork to the left,
knife to the right,
and bent spoon shoved
in the back pants pocket.
If life is a box of chocolates,
overindulgence is the empty
box buried at the bottom of a
trash can. Struggle becomes a
wet glassine bag in an empty
wallet. And death is a pair of
silver bracelets. This is all about
over-extending, because if one
is enough, then two is too much.
how we animals can set a time to gather,
and gather we do,
to imbibe keystone poison
made in some factory,
we don’t know,
we don’t care to know,
as it fuses with our blood
and makes us careless to the talking and dancing and flirting and fighting
we claim to enjoy,
if we can remember
through the two-way mirrors that
our stiff blood glazes over our eyes,
reflecting in on ourselves our own incomprehensible
revealing to others our all too comprehensible
making them laugh warily if they haven’t recognized that
they can’t stand the sight of us all
trying to claw our ways back
down the fractals of our lives
to childhoods we’re always
Looking at them now
these windows are really ******* tall.
There's a sense of pride
from the anger inside
an exciting culture of fast love and slow money
where ambition consumes you and spits you out like a poisoned danish.
An age-old struggle "so it seems,"
where the ones who make the history books
are killed quietly with the needle of self-loathing
but the media shows us all a huge ****** knife of misunderstanding,
or the shattered glass covered in pieces of Armani suit
under an open pane ten stories above us
where the windows are really ******* tall.
— The End —