Swaying swing song,
Prose to the passion and a little pumpkin pie puppy.
Sweetly dreaming dreams,
It's so much more than it seems.
These tangled tendrils of textile tree trunks,
Flying through my muddled mind as I find everything I say flunks.
It's not easy being insane,
It's not easy having everyone else tell you you're perfectly sane.
I'm not alright.
I'm not letting the moon out of my sight.
Laughing laughing, lounging lie,
Cookie crumbs are speckled across a dark blue icing sky.
Speaking, slurred slurs that were supposed to sound like words,
There's too much icing now and it's clotting up all the bonnet birds.
Maybe if I tried to kill my shadow,
I wouldn't be so scared in a sunshine filled meadow?
So I took to the knife,
And laid out my little life.
It wasn't much to me,
I've already seen the whole thing.
But something stuck me that I never thought to see-
Grit your teeth in revenge as living as opposed to spiteful suicide or some other sort of option.
You don't get many good options when you're pretty sure you're insane,
But everyone else says they envy your pretty perfect brain.
I don't understand the words, the faces and places melt into icing.
There's too much icing.
I can't feel a thing.
-icing-
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
YOU ARE READING
-Good Morning, Stranger-
PoetryThey sound like such simple words, But they cut into me so. Such simple places, But they all seem to move so slow. Maybe if I were a lover, I could make it freeze up in summer, So I won't have to forget, The way you and I would hold each other as we...
