#threadbare
I've been lost in my head, I might outlast forever
I know it's cliche and can play the part of a trigger
But I don't feel safe, can't recall if I have ever
Awake or asleep, it's the same nightmare
Collectively we already know nothing in there fights fare
And the fabric between the realities are threadbare and beginning to tare
I can physically feel the line blur between what's fake and what I'll be held accountable for later
Poetry, to me, is just me attempting to map out every square inch under my thing hair
Behind eyes that can barely show they care
In my fake grin, and between my left and right ear
Taking caution not to ruffle a feather on the ****** of devil's on each shoulder
I'm sure to discover rooms I haven't been in since I don't know when, oh dear,
What's the year?
Whatever
Hey, what's in here?
To dark to tell but oh do I know this smell all too well
Unfairly familiar
That putrid air
Nothing can compare
I'd recognize it anywhere
What we have here is fear
Maybe it'd be irresponsible of me to share
Probably not a good idea to push much further
Clear and present danger
Nothing's properly put together
Can't make sense of the clutter
Extra pieces from every fixture
Litter the ground next to the broken glass from every family picture
Shattered dreams scattered everywhere
I know what it looks like but there's not an interesting story here
I can assure it was no thrilling adventure
But I can not ensure a safe future
No one should witness the part of me, the litny of every nasty memory, everything I was forced to locked away in there
It's my headspace and I'm even too afraid to enter
I thought the scar meant it healed but then how's this door ajar?
What's going on here?
©2024
Jan 30, 2024
Jan 30, 2024 at 6:18 PM UTC
while soaring the heavenly heights
many hours ago
every major metropolis appeared
about a million miles below
the rarefied atmosphere
ideal composition beckoned angels,
who bustled, hustled, and jostled elbow
(which bedlam, flimflam, and mayhem
intimated Hells Bells)
wing trying (heavens to Betsy) to flag attention,
and snag coveted soundcloud Netherland Award
cap ping bulging port folio,
which hubbub charged crackled, popped,
snapped amidst light emitting diodes
with a snazzy aura, charisma
harp pulling, piping, and chiefly
paying praise (CI years post haste)
to William Henry Perkin
whose credit able karma
(and unwitting) claim to fame didst glow
purple, which jumpstarted incandescent halo
couture culture club, via constant comet inflow
of Plasmodia vaguely resembling microscopic red Jello
illuminating swath of dusky
shutter flying sky sustaining
self contained feedback instagram loop know
wing lee broadcasting mauveine staccato low
to the groundswell of chemists dyeing, Googling,
and gratefully huzzahing insinuating
killing, kindling kissing
malaria goodbye, an outlook
(nee a once in a lifetime moe
mint - je nais sais quoi) win out loud
respectably sedulous honoree, a no
bill sine qua non bit player aniline
(to conclude this short poem) about his oh
penning accidental discovery kickstarting pro
noun est contribution to the fashion industry.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC