you feel like;

on/off drumbeats, disconnected
like feeble hearts, broken off from
sentimental reality;
screeching acid synthesiser,
ringing through my
veins, transposing cold blood
in attempt to make me feel
more alive.

you feel like;

repetition,
breathing
out in,
in out;
overused
nostalgia, the kind that every
other human in the sea of
population (thinks they) feel.

i feel like scratchy twelve
inch vinyls, ones that have forgotten
how to play, and i feel like maybe
i wasn’t cut out for this, maybe
i should forgive and forget, and
maybe i should

just
move
on.

--

an: oh god, i'm losing my touch. hack away kids, i don't particularly like this either.