There’s something so sinister about being lost inside of yourself;-
I apply Lip Ice before I fall asleep, just in case I have to experience
That cold kiss with Death. But that’s one being, being less than
generous to oneself, and giving out a lot of degenerate excuses
Of not doing so well. Rambling picaresque; engulfed by a hardened
sense; feeding well into my own insecurities, made from haphazard
ingredients- as a soul that tastes like concluded gumbo
Still, I ate a full plate; possessing a ruthless taste; an illegitimate
descendant of experience- that ******* is tapping, watered down
By the chit and chatter of rain; a totem of pain, spoken in haste,
As my lips are a cigarette ember, kissing while heat reveals itself,
As a tiny echoed spark, in a pool full of fresh gasoline
I only hear the sound of peace, in a snoring dream, ha, I hardly
do try to breathe out of my nose. From not being altogether; are we
Really all together- who really knows? But only the dead, who truly
Get to see the entire world, as souls that rise, or of course those who fall
As its truly so sinister living as beings, in this world’s being.
