A poem about feeling fragile and the components of hope and my pessimism on the subject. |
Crumpled into trash, paper skin will always burn. The pain is more discomfort, and disgust more than that. The tarnished lies that I've spewed forth; I cannot take them back. I'm dead inside, just forget the lies. I've burnt my bridges, broken my vows, beat the dead horse. I can't hide behind my eyes! All this time, I've thought this and that! I know so little, and I can't get back! The empty walls and the deathly gloom! I finally know, there's no man in the moon! But I'll paint it black and put a ring on it! I'm sitting in a throne, but there's no king on it! I'm broken like my wings, a tag and a string hanging off the right wing. I vomit. Only in my head, there's nothing real left to see. For sight is just a very circumstantial promise. The demon, he broke it. Took my mind in a vice grip and stole it. The thief, he comes and goes as he pleases. Begging and pleading, I'm on my knees and wheezing. Dirty eyes and broken clocks, the agonizing little ticks and tocks. Meanwhile, the demon just lays in thought. Every little motion, I believed and bought. The monster, a cold cut so callous. I played bloody knuckles with myself, they're torn and calloused. Still I listen to this ballast, the explosions of a savage. This unbearable rage is madness. |