Silky bemused lies,
Against sap-slow sun-stitched confused eyes,
How to confess my impressed admiration to the sensation of your endless affirmation.
But cruelly, I couldn't ever deserve this rough handed beauty you see,
No gentle hearthside hands worth less for me,
For I am the steady glory of destruction in my own discrepantory gumption!
My heart is humbled hallow,
Words difficult for me to swallow,
And everyone is busy expecting me to look towards my own respecting!
They don't understand any of this,
The pinnacle of my musing cynical bliss,
Boring into the snoring flesh of sweet stitched morning dew.
How can I look into the mirror and smile,
When I couldn't get my body past the free trial,
Seethed and unrelieved in a cesspool of tangled knots and coiled spool only I knew?
Maybe someday I'll find admiration for my alleged "magnificence",
But I fear I fret that day will be how I die in dotingly disobedient dissonance,
Woven into a spiral of skeleton cast bones and eaten hearts hard as stones.
Love for me is either earned or coincidental,
Touching it all tenacious and experimental,
What could I ever know when I was told the opposing end was the only way I was to go?
Maybe if I blugon out my gut,
I could be seen as a sacrificial savior and not some stupid sappy mutt,
Narrowed into blood as I lap at my own defined dunce and dud.
The thoughts that tell me I must rot,
Are sinking into my skin!
I am not sure what else there is to do when my own body is tilted into cacophony!
And trust me when I tell you,
When I say to you,
It's sickening!
My blood is murky muddied poison,
And it's rapidly thickening.
My poetry falls into pessimistic pestilence,
And I'm supposed to be so passionate,
Despite these things about myself I can't seem to forget!
My flesh is overwhelmed with filth,
I'm expected to say I love this swill sautéd sort of skin tilth,
When the only crop I crown from my meat fleshed mound is corpses and strings seeping through my sun-stitched skin!
Rotten, rotten,
I am but a brat.
Sinking, sinking,
For I cannot swim for I lack the sense of self preservation.
Loving, loving,
Let me fail to your amusement~!
An ace up my sleeve,
A king of fools and hearts,
My chest rattled with empty air and the bruises along weary arms let the ace slip out.
No tricks, no gimmicks, nothing when I stop and restart!
A jester then may fester and remain alone inside my brain.
No sense in having a sense of self love or worthiness,
When I am left to the wilds and let the wolves take my tongue as the rest we can guess.
I am deposited debris left to be emptiness.
-end-
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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...
