the mind's recesses

Being 'Special'

You can't stop the sun
Going away at night.
If your skin was made
Of greenish twigs, would you
Be more careful with yourself?

The stars slip into purple seas
And swim through the ink
Of melting words.
Words that drip down your back
And stain you (and pen
Doesn't come off that well),
Because you thought it would make
The reading of them more interesting:

But there's no point writing something
With multiple hidden meanings,
If no one can understand what
You're saying.

Those broken bones
Don't make life easy.

You're just a warning on a label
Stuck to a medicine bottle.
The terms and conditions that apply
But are never read.

Pause the video for a moment,
And study the pixels
That come with bad quality.
Ordinary people who talk rubbish for
A little extra money,
And yet we give them too much credit.

Are your hands made of coal?
That would explain
Why I keep sneezing
When I hear your name.

When your feet seem too small
To walk more than a mile,
Do you know that they speak rubbish
To the soles of your shoes?
Complain that you make them
Work too hard,
And to what final purpose?
Pointless agony, if you ask me.

And when the rain runs down
Your bare arms that are speckled
With hair (since you haven't been
Bothered enough to wax them),
And you shiver because you
Left your coat behind in your hurry,
I don't know what I can say to you.

Take more care of yourself,
I suppose,
Since even if your skin isn't made
Of twigs, that doesn't mean
You deserve any less thought.