#prone
This bed it is a bridge
Of what is real and fantasy
I despise reality
I'd rather keep dreaming
Where I am free
To be alive
Where I will thrive
And my heart can be
Free from knives
I will not cry
I can not feel
I stay in bed to escape what is real
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
To compensate for (A -Z)
ineradicable alphanumeric
character flaws (i.e. mutations
of body or mind,)
and avoid amass
sing wracking up vexatiously
undesirable threatening class
action lawsuit against
Matthew Scott Harris,
which preliminary measure
taken to avoid disembarrass
sing said individual as
a majorly flawed individual
literal shortcomings of body,
mind and spirit,
the metier of writing doth encompass
a creative realm to trump
geomorphology, sans groundmass
at the unsolicited expense
(mine alter ego i.e. worst critic)
will gleefully find,
and expose grammatical,
misspelling, spelling,
et cetera errors to harass
glommed together with isinglass
hop, skip and jumping
to appear as a *******
whereat no respect
able collegiate lass
would give a fig about me,
one totally tubular royal morass,
which expert anthropologists
stumped asper nonclass
if eye able ****
sapiens mutant ninja turtle
case in point being his
wanting in height not e'en pass
sing the six foot mark
plus mental illness
perhaps traceable to
besotted cognitive damage
inherited predecessors
quaffing an overdose of quass
made obvious peering at resulting
Ct scan results viewed
via microscopic spyglass
revealing abnormal amygdala
automatically designating
his aptitude underclass
among average human
with mettlesome Zeusian brass.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
when i was distant,
you were there
when i am here,
you are
where?
scattered
the floor
getting brushed into corners
not knowing
where the pieces of you belong anymore
i think i know who i am
until the porcelain architecture of you
the sacred curvatures of your song
is put in my hands
should i glue you back together?
could i have a small piece? for keepsake
or should i just let you be safe
and let someone else
melt you down into
some other shape?
i thought if i held you,
you'd pry your wings open
and, well
fly
but dear bird,
i am not magic
i never was to begin with
and now i must come to terms with this
~
why do
i
break every thing
i
touch
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
If I lose my father,
I will be an orphan.
If I lose my mother,
I will be an orphan.
If I lose my loved one,
I will be an orphan.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
"You're always moving forward.
Just sometimes, the road gets bumpy as ****
The road may get bumpy,
but I'm ever so clumsy.
Give me a spotter
otherwise I may break
something along the way.
I'm not saying I need to be saved,
I just need someone
to make sure I'm okay.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
Because often there are icy roads,
Icy roads coated with darkest ice,
They can make vehicles slip & crash,
All slip not only out of the icy roads,
But even into each other they collide,
These call for going slow in Oslo,
'Cause reasons suchlike prevail.
Neither snow chains can help much,
Nor being an expert driver help you,
No other thing is going to help you..
Help yourselves & others too,
Just go slow in Oslo...
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
If it gets you through the night,
you could sit there on the couch and pretend that I’m not listening.
We’ve been over this time and again, yet here you are flipped
from side B to side A. I hope your tape breaks and this message
is flipping in the wind on a tab with a marker
marked red. I hope you understand.
My life feels like vacation but my… well everybody
will promise you violence over practically nothing
and I think I deserve a better planet. Instead I’m here.
It’s marginally all my ego, but mostly I just want to disappear.
I swear; If I break a heart I’ll fix it, but I’m a disease and a symptom,
and I stick like bad religion. Worshipers take shelter from this cult.
I’d even stab you if I had proper motivation,
and I didn’t treat myself like my own martyr for nothing.
The “real” me may only be what you make of me anyways.
My image of myself only exists within my head,
and in that image I am rotten with perfection.
My only corduroy is torn and smells of bleach,
but I’m too sleepy to change into my skin.
I swear I’m more than just an ordinary sin,
just because I’m also my own martyr.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC