Awake
Dreading death

You're like every other free-spirit.
No more free than a bird in a cage
Or a fish in a tank.
The only thing you see is your own reflection.
The only approval you need is from yourself
And that's how it should be,
But when the only opinion you see is yours
You have a problem.
I don't mean to sound angry
Because I'm not.
This is a lesson in growing up.
The sooner you learn it the better.
Underdeveloped sense of self-worth
And an overdeveloped sense for yourself.
The world owes you nothing more than the air you breathe
And even that seems like it's pushing it.
Give more than you receive.
Be a humble person.
Easy lessons,
But I guess not for you.

I hope this finds you well.

Wrapped around an
overdeveloped
finger.
Possesed, yet
wholly worthless.

Next to me, you are nothing.

Sin as something
gorgeous to death.
Crafted from curses,
lizard tongues and
snakeskin.

Soft as satin.

The forms of lions reported were false.
It was a body of men with no heads.
They were no one, but everyone was it.
A cannibalistic **** of Self.
Gaping yaws with no faces to give word,
Unable to hear their own glottal calls,
Guttered incoherence for none to see.
Their fire and power were unlike those stored
In our hundred buried years of Mundis.
Unbound viscera – black, boiled, and souring:
Replaceable parts via war and tea;

Served with flesh overdeveloped to taste;
Served to slouching tongues and beastly fingers
By those for whom labor is cause and curse.
Adrenaline and other chemicals
Oiling their blood, charging minds, taxing nerves,
Traumatically driving their will to serve
Their bottom-toothed anathematic maws.
Those best who remained born of conviction
Died with the worst unexceptionally.
We now ask not what is coming for us,
But how long we will allow it to feed.

as a woman
she was a boy
after her own
heart.

as a girl
she had an overdeveloped
process addiction
to program cessation
programs.

as a poem
she knew
suicide
like the back
of her hand
and with
two palms
took a bird
to its bones.

her knees remained
the earphones
of god
and god
an unmanned
analogy.

Those mighty mountains veiled
With mist and an enchanting mat
Of wild ferns and eerie rampageousness
Saluting apart from the bowed stuff
Desperately frowned
Not a picturesque worth
Posed as the whole community
Of sand, stones and gravel
After thousands of years labour
Collision of their descendant plate
Or their kind god of land
Knitted every yarn of their unit
But everyday two devils
With their aggression and *****
Wears out every thread
Of that giant particulate matter
Dumping in crowds of tractors
To overdeveloped cities
To constructors and masons
After just three months
Gush of sandy winds led my way
To the way to saluted mountains
But once bowed land saluted
And the once saluting mountains
Were past under my feet..

and god, feeling

left out,
cornered
the present
and waited
for back-up.

Adam was Eve’s great lie.

I eat
on purpose.

the son of my enemy
has an overdeveloped
sense
of absence
and hates
all cows.

i loathe the nightly routine of
complex human emotions.
the insecurity induced fear of
never knowing what intimacy might feel like
because my outer layers won’t invite
any invidivual in, since sharp daggers are
what a gaze of mine would spill

I loathe the nightly routine of
crying myself to sleep when I read
all the lovey-dovey descriptions of
some couples won defeat
over loneliness and feeling utterly incomplete.

I know you know what I mean.
being the first to hide and the last to dream
of idealistic connection in a world
lost in translation.

I see you.
behind the screen.
misunderstood.
not able to cross the line of
wanting to be alone and
never wanting to be alone again.

I get the hint.
I wish I wouldn’t be so bothered about it.
listen to the piece of advice saying
“it happens when you least expect it”,
**** their optimistic mindset, really

we live in a society,
where connection might be easy
but hard to develop as something
more than a swipe to the next inviting beauty.

video may have killed the radio star
but the digital absurdity of modern society
suffocated the hopelessly romantic
and gave him a good ******* amount of
overdeveloped anxiety.

© fey (05/10/20)

the topmost part of a fire--

can resemble the torquing spittle

of sparking leaves.

singeing a wind to move, just as it

lay its head down on the same forest

depression.

whose braceleted stones ground the

pool of a De-cember rain dance.

so stones can sharpen the knives of

earlier closures of light.

more reflective than the origination

of anything lost & found.

think tree canopies as overdeveloped

as the skies that they trade photographic

memory with.