Experimental. Or just mental. But I've seen worse.


October 3, 2011

.

Tomorrows grave, today's day.

A second nonetheless

and a second wasted, in your presence.

.

You can tell me to do this and that,

for the good of my soul,

for the good of my dwindling facade

the skin peeling off in obsessions reflection.

You could say "you're drowning, for God's sake!"

and I'd let the air dissipate from my lungs.

.

I know what I should and shouldn't do,

but boundaries are flexible,

and I'll push the railing, till I fall to death.

No one ever told me

why taking risks never paid off.

No one wanted to admit they're liars.

.

And no one wanted to try it for themselves,

the false and the doppelgangers,

you chameleonic cursed, upturned in the

ideal of societal to be or not to be.

I could try and make sense to you,

but what's the point, in hearing your monotonic

ironic, tectonic, casuistic, distortations?

.

So why don't I try

and tell you for it?

.

Doomed to be, but not without a choice,

and that's mine to make, I've made already.

Step off the cliff,

into saturated hydrogen di-

ox-I'd never imagine a dream as immense as this

or a face as acutely void and vacuous as yours.

.

To a voice that's equally (more or less)

a vapid waste of clammy breath

equating from the hollowed cheeks and

stiff-necked larynx of a muted mule.

Respect, my dear fellow respiring species,

is something I cannot afford to give.