"lifelike" poems
Inhale, feel, lets the flavors collide.
**** it down if you can
Every taste from your poisonous gauntlet
Reminds me of me your kiss.
Passionate, I keep sipping.
I love you more than I love myself.
You have become the reason I breathe,
And you will prove to be the reason I die.
My skin under my eyes loses color.
It is tired from the things you have thrown at it.
Trying to combat you is a lost cause.
In those moments,
I look into your brown eyes
And try to find something weak
Something human.
Your blank stare frightens me
As it is comparable to a demon, the devil
Devoid of remorse, or guilt, or sorrow.
Your words cut deeper.
They are the IV in my veins
They penetrate my skin
And invade my bloodstream
Yet, I continue to hook their machines
Up to my comatose body.
I have gone from having a bright smile
To wearing a perpetual look of anguish.
You have aged me ten years.
I stare down at my hands as they tremble.
My eyeballs have sunken into my head
I am a ruin of anything lifelike.
It is a defective disposition
But can it be cured?
An addiction is a pleasure is a curse
That grows as you feed it.
I must cut myself off from you, my lifeline,
Completely.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
*Elemental Metamorphosis & Transcendental Milestones,
Sempiternal Origamis Of Her Temperamental Clones,
Spiraling Perpetuities & Her Sacrosanct Fortitude,
Procreating Tipsy Ruptures In Her Permeating Solitude,
Perplexed Momentum & Her Outlandish Constellations,
Nuclear Decay Of Her Masked Radiations,
Verbal Shadows & Her Tranquil Ascendance,
Encasing Her Tears In Liquefied Transcendence,
Yearning Oddities & Entropic Oceans,
Vitalizing Inexorable Emotions Into Phosphorescent Potions,
An Hourglass Existence Of Her Fabricated Virility,
Dwelling In Quantum Ascents Of Ardent Agility,
Silver Ghosts Of Her Prismatic Abyss,
Convicting Glass Houses In Her Ecstatic Bliss,
Telepathic Shades & Hollow Palisades,
Detrimental Novelists On Uncharted Crusades,
Pernicious Scars In Her Profound Gaze,
Erupting Genesis Inside Her Dimensional Maze,
Perplexed Periphery & Digital Fictions,
Annexed By Her Hourglass Depictions,
Breakdown Sanity & Her Concealed Screams,
Lifelike Dewdrops In Her Visionary Dreams,
Satellite Searchlights & Love//Less Progenic Mutation,
Paralyzed Sunlight Sparking Genetic Alteration,
Monochromatic Streams & Cinematic Realms,
Static Screams Of Her Toxic Schemes.
- 05:43 AM -*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC
There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.
The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation
A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.
my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found
In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.
eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend
his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.
upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.
A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.
Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
All the poems have wolves in it -- Jim Morrison
Man in bathtub with stony eyes
Water getting stiller in the cold, dead night
Hair long and soft as outstretched raven claws
Wilted fingers grip the lip with lifelike vigor
And then slip away
Naked wooden marionettes writhe
In dunes of ****** sawdust
Shedding skin like so much baggage
And baggage like so much skin
Cheese-grater screams on blank faces
Soon the forms are dust and then
The dust is gone
Inked fingers dipped in oft-repeated wisdoms
Picking little crippled words
And someone else's Lego bricks
Shine a light on the beautiful
Laugh at it
Sing to it
Grasp at it
Quit
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
i am not
the sum of my parts
i am my parts, still scattered
and somehow arranged
in working order
fingers scrabbling to sew
the pieces together
into this shambling, smiling mess
i am not
the whole picture
i am the pixels, the sharp squares
of almost-colour
that mean nothing up close
but look ordinary, lifelike
and solid
from far away
i am far away
a million-pixel memory
moving into the whole picture
and fitting in just perfectly enough
to fade into the horizon
as the sum of my parts
becomes just another spark
trying to ignite a dormant soul
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
Trying to breathe,
TRYING TO BREATHE
into the woods.
An old woman
in a furry hat
& I,
laughing together
still somewhat
lifelike.
Ever too proud
to play
boomerang
or go fetch
for change
FOR CHANGE
we live out
of bags.
Exactly where
we're meant to be
& 'how you say?'
...all that jazz."
--shoo.shu #doubleentendres #poetry #spilledink #inthenow #inthemoment #underdog #homeless #boho #bohemian #wanderlust #gypsy #nomad
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
Fetch me out of my case
Handle with care my prized lacquered face
Rest gently my wooden veneered base
Cradle my neck and prepare to lace
Wipe off my fret with a towel
Gift to me your first string
Fasten one end with a dowel
More to do before I sing
Other end, goes into my head
Through one pinhole, allow some slack
Remaining strings, the same you will thread
Strung side by side, along their tracks
Now tighten, wind them taut
Work away the looseness
Stash aside all other thoughts
My voice almost heard albeit tuneless
Here I lay; quiet and strung
You'd have to give me my voice
Then I'd speak but only in your tongue
Then I'd sing only if it's your choice
Prop me up, caress my earthy spine
I'd mouth your words according to pitch
United through movement, manipulate my lines
Your script; my mouth, seamlessly we'd stitch
Your fingers, they twitch and flick
Willing the most lifelike of gestures
Rising and falling of my strings you'd pick
Whimsical dance between slaves and masters
My body over which I have no control
Helplessness overcome my entire being
In my fibres, grains and knots, bore no soul
Without you I lay limp; close to nothing
You need me to project your speech
I need you to make me feel alive
Off of each other, we'd feed and leech
As both hosts and parasites, together we'd thrive
I am one of yours but not the favourite pet
I am just an extension of your unfortunate self
I am wood, dead and lifeless; a strung up marionette
Not a guitar but your fancy puppet sitting on the shelf
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
Hey, you.
Yeah, you. The liar.
The deceiver.
The faker.
Guess what?
I see you.
I see right through your fake bloom.
No plant is always green.
Green and motionless,
Gathering dust in the corner.
It's really not hard.
Anyone who gets close enough can see you're fake.
I don't care how lifelike you are.
You're still made of plastic in the end.
The beauty of a wilted blossom is foreign to you.
Move along.
I want nothing with you.
Or those who set you up to show.
Give me the real thing.
A flower that takes watering,
And that will eventually die.
Not this fake plastic imitation.
No, give me fleeting life,
Not the lie of immortality and perfection.
At first I thought you looked good.
Thought I'd like you around.
But your greens have become sickly,
Your reds and blues dim,
Covered with a film of dust.
Only the dead gather dust like that.
Stop smiling.
Stop laughing.
Stop talking.
Start thinking,
Start breathing.
Start living.
Maybe then we'll be friends.
Maybe then it will work.
Not until then.
No for now, keep moving.
Cause I see you.
Clear as day.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
I can still feel the bass from your music
vibrate deep within my hollow ribcage
where my heart used to beat.
Sometimes I pretend that your lips
are pressed hard against my collar bones
wishing me well again.
Other times, I dream that your caramel
colored eyes are staring back into mine
with such lifelike severity, that even you
can't remember why you broke up with me.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
jia jia of supple plastic face
gracefully arranged hair
hands that gesture, eyes that roll
a lifelike porcelain doll
docile ****** expressions
perfect height to weight ratio
fluent in English and Mandarin
soothing, well-modulated tone
what can I do for you, my Lord?
the creator's goal
to refine programming
until jai jai can laugh and cry
learn to interact naturally
he calls her his
robot goddess
a wet-dream confection
with none of the messiness
of a full-fleshed playgirl
though she is artificial
and cannot feel
I pity my non-sentient sister
controlled by design
submission absolute
maybe she can fill
the hole left by women
who abandon conformity
to seek being real
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
Vapours appear as if by magic
On the blue canvas of the sky
Creating curious shapes
Or, is it a trick of the eye?
Cauliflower clouds accumulate
Into such a mountainous size;
Mushrooms seem to sprout
Right before my very eyes.
Next, a little white rabbit
With thin, pointy ears
And a mouse with whiskers
Shapes, and slowly appears.
Soon, a whole menagerie
Of animals come into view;
An elephant and a seagull
And even a kangaroo!
My, what a most impressive
Vaporous display;
Much too good to ignore
At the end of the day
As it’s then that these scenes
Appear at their very best
When the setting sun splits rays
And I feel my heart won’t rest
As it beats excitedly at
These pleasing pictures to view;
No artist could capture completely
A painting as lifelike, as true.
So, when you look up at clouds
And wish they wasn't there
Consider that these vapours in azure
Floating quietly in the air
Gently pour life-sustaining rain
Onto the thirsty earth
And thus, each cloud actually
Has a great deal of worth.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
"Welcome to the world of Crazy Cool"
The author said as he took her by the hand and guided her throughout this land
She was amazed at how even though they were cartoons, the look and feel we're almost lifelike
She became intrigued by her surroundings with the more and more she saw
As they were walking the sheriff's car of Crazy Cool pulled up right beside them
This one seemed different from the other characters in the comic book world
Although all of the characters seemed lifelike, this one in particular seemed a little too lifelike
"What's going on here?"
The sheriff said with a frown
"What are you strangers doing in this Crazy Cool town?"
And that's when he saw her, this beautiful woman dressed in all white
He might as well have fallen to his knees, not even putting up a fight
The author grew weary, for he secretly desired her too
"Hey smack that look off your face. Yeah, I'm talking to you"
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Dawn: the world takes on
colours, becomes lifelike, but --
remains elusive.
Feb 9, 2024
Feb 9, 2024 at 2:23 AM UTC
*and there, carved into the oaken doors
of the Madhouse, in stark, lifelike detail,
three massive cyclones. side by side.
They seemed to sway and beckon
as the door began to creak open.
"We'll be there soon," the Cyclones harshly whispered to me.
"We'll be along shortly, and then we'll rip apart and send you whirling along with
everything you love. Send you whirling to the void, where everything wails and moans,
and nothing will ever rest in peace again"*
Madhouse
Time for the rain to shine,
ways for the moon to rhyme,
space for the gods to pine,
running through a madhouse with no way to stop.
Cane for the *** to chew,
slow when his eyes hit you,
rope when the hands push through,
skidding on wet floors on the way to the drop.
Slip to a diiff'rent side,
high on the wind to ride,
hope that the tree will hide,
stumbling up stairwells to get to the top.
Run as the jaws will snap,
swing when the wings won't flap,
streak when the soles do slap
Twilight is closing on the whirlwind's last crop.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
Ask me what kind of **** I am into
And I will take you on a magical journey
To fanfiction dot com backslash Harry Potter backslash NC17
What turns me on is Ginny Weasely in the restricted section
With her skirt hiked up;
Sirius Black in a secret passage way,
Solemnly swearing that he is up to no good;
And Draco Malfoy in the room of requirement slithering in to my Chamber of Secrets;
I am an unapologetic consumer of all things Potterotica,
And the sexiest part
Is not the way Cho Chang rides that broomstick
Or the sounds of Myrtle moaning,
The sexiest part is knowing
That they are part of a bigger story;
That they exist beyond eight minutes in ***** ***** Gang Bang,
That their kegels are not the strongest thing about them,
And still I am told
That my **** is ‘unrealistic’.
Not quite as ****** as flashing ads saying 'just turned 18’
So you can fantasize about ******* the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for.
I’m told that my **** isn’t quite as lifelike
As a room full of lesbians begging for ****
Told that this is what is supposed to turn me on.
Don’t you give me raw meat
And tell me it is nourishment,
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like 24/7 live streaming
Reminding me that men are going to **** me whether I like it or not,
That there is one use for my mouth and it is not speaking,
That a man is at his most powerful when he’s got a woman by the hair.
The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists
And called me a *****
I did not think 'run’,
I thought 'this is just like the movies’
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like websites and seminars teaching you how to **** more *******
Looks like fifteen-year-old boys bullied for being virgins,
It looks like the man who did not flinch
When I said stop and he heard 'try harder’.
If you play-act at butchery long enough
You grow used to the sounds of screaming,
It is just a side effect of industry;
Everything gets cut into small, marketable pieces.
I will not practice ****** hands
I will not make believe dissected women,
My *** cannot be packaged
My *** is magic
It is part of a bigger story
I am whole
I exist when you are not ******* me
And I will not be cut into pieces any more.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
Now, we find needs just so we can fill them. We go insane so we can buy the meds. Soccer moms popping children’s pills. Everyone dreaming suicide and depression. No how. No why. No reason.
We want inventions so we can make infomercials. Who cares about shipping and handling? **** the national debt. I’ll give you my credit card number, and you’ll send me a pet nail trimmer, even though Max (the dog) died four years ago, you never know what you’ll need right?
We find government just to have politicians. Everyone promises a solution to the problem. No one ever expects it to pan out. Instead, we vote on name recognition, parties, and skin color. Who cares about platforms or empty promises?
We wage wars just to make video games. I’ll shoot you now, your brother will shoot me later, but don’t worry, when we’re all in the ground. Someone, somewhere, will design a kickass, strategic, lifelike game, where dying only means regenerating and less ammo.
We all want something, or nothing. We all work to live, live to die.
Try just to fail, fail to try.
We want anonymity, just to forget the tragedy of our minds.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 12:18 PM UTC
Lord Elgin of Britain, that perfidious thief,
robbed Greece of its heritage, its marble reliefs.
The Parthenon stripped of its decorative stone,
a victim of rapine stands forlorn and alone.
Phidias’ statues, rendered so fine,
Are lifelike and glorious for now and all time.
The British museum houses the collection
Which Elgin purloined while avoiding detection.
Greece, more than most, has been robbed of its past
By ephemeral empires who thought they would last.
Now that the sun sets on the imperial throne
Isn’t it time that those Marbles went home?
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
lifelike confessions
play out like make believe
your metal warms
against my skin
reprogramming resistance
fabricated sweet talk
counterfeit concern
become too real
and I am drawn
more willingly
than magnetized.
© Ben Ditmars 2014
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
Imagine yourself working hard, working
as if you were feeding your family of ten
How would you react the moment when
you're done, the reward, wine for uncorking
but the next day it's gone, everything is gone
you had a chance, were happy for all you
accomplished and it's gone. The worst drawn
feeling, known for and by, and there's nothing to
do, to try and change, but you don't try, because
why bother, it has left your life most likely lifelike like
facts, facts on the other side of a rushhouring road.
Loading, loading, new ideas in progress, a huge load
of chances coming up, but you're not even slightly interested
When the one important thing is gone, the rest falls along.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Along the gallant road rides a superfluous vibe,
Secreting utter destruction as it strides through massive vines.
It clasps its form against the almighty wind,
With every curve, it steeps into a lifelike kin.
When midnight turns, it taunts with vigorous fear.
Growing its momentum as it creeps near and near.
Suddenly, faint noises reeled in and appeared! Creak…Creak…Creak….
The wind slams into the mahogany door without any presence becoming clear.
What might it be? Who could it be?
Had the door not been closed when I went off to sleep?
The infant child began to ruminate about all the possibilities,
Until the moment it grew tired and drifted into a dream.
The child became the rider of the wind.
Dreaming of endless encounters with other hopeless victims.
Have you not noticed the source of energy imposed from within?
It was the child who crafted this skin of sin.
The silent scream soared throughout the sky.
Until the unconscious mind transformed, as it stroked midnight.
Ding…Dong…Ding… The animal awoke from its den;
After a superfluous vibe was intuitively picked up from within.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
I’d kiss those gypsy lips
Let my fingers linger
And slide down the side
Of your comic book curvy hips
I’d stare into your infinite eyes
To peek at the perfect pool of pictures
Piercing nature’s lifelike reflections
Deeper and deeper into your being
I’d listen to the harmony of your voice
That silky soft folksy tone
From tenor to baritone
Full of emotion’s tremors
I’d inhale your intoxicating scent
Like lonely rose petals
Floating away in separate directions
Your body dripping droplets of a sweet sweaty smell
I’d feel your breath
Heated and gasping
Passion elapsing and reforming
Hours to minutes and sometimes only seconds
I would take you in with every sense I had
Wishing for more senses to love you with
All the pressure building from within
Blinding me and coming through you my inspiration
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Giddy with excitement,
she fumbles with her keys.
As the key slides home,
she grows weak in the knees.
She’s waited so long,
and it’s finally come.
She spent a small fortune,
and the thing weighs a ton.
She pushes in the package,
starting to sweat,
and suddenly realizes,
her ******* are wet.
She slides a finger inside her,
and lets out a moan,
trembling slightly,
all the way to the bone.
Gathering herself,
she locks the door tight,
and forces herself to calm down,
gathering all her might.
Getting down on her knees,
she opens the box,
brushing away the packing,
like styrofoam rocks.
When she sees his face,
she sits up *****
He is so lifelike,
and anatomically correct.
Reaching into the box,
she caresses his face.
He’s so beautifully sculpted,
not a thing out of place.
Then she runs her hands,
down his chest to his groin,
caressing his ****
feeling the warmth in her *****
It’s bigger than expected,
as long as her forearm.
The biggest she’s had,
but this raises no alarm.
Taking her time,
she arranges him on the bed.
Even laying a pillow,
under his head.
Running fingers through his hair,
she begins to undress.
Doing it slowly,
cause slowly is best.
He’s more than a doll,
more than plastic parts.
He will never hurt her,
or break her heart.
She crawls on all fours,
in between his thighs,
running her fingers over him,
as she stares into his eyes.
Then she fills her mouth,
******* gently at first,
and then she fills her throat,
trying to quench her thirst.
She’s dripping now,
so exquisitely wet,
and moaning deeply,
like a good little pet.
The doll lays still,
as she mounts it slow.
She’s lost in her pleasure,
as something brushes her toe.
She opens her eyes,
as a hand grabs her throat,
and another her breast,
her vision starting to float.
She struggles for air,
and feels a ****** as it moves,
and a soft moan escapes it,
as the blackness consumes.
Bucking and fighting,
she claws at its face,
but it simply slides deeper,
and quickens its pace.
She stares down into eyes,
that are filled with life,
and features so sharp,
as to be carved by a knife.
It’s beauty is gone,
simply melted away,
seeming to flow freely,
as if made from soft clay.
As her vision fades,
it moves inside her,
whispering “my princess”,
in a soft little purr.
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 4:14 PM UTC
The incessant twang of complexity against my ribs
Accompanies the unwanted phantom touch on my hips
But the gentle caress of healing only barely brushes my lips
This is a beginning, but it feels like an ending with no postscripts
The things I used to find comfort in are futile
Against the battering of emptiness against my chest; it's brutal
But physically, I'm intact. Selfishly, I'd feel better if it was gruesome
However, only my mind is in disarray, if I'm being truthful
Do you know what it feels like?
Sometimes it feels dreamlike
More aptly nightmarish, but lifelike
A distant reality, objective, almost businesslike
It feels like a sordid, shameful affair
Although I played no part in the cause of my despair
I am the one who has to deal with it, so I send up a prayer
My soul hopes for speedy repairs
Nov 16, 2020
Nov 16, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC