pissy buckets of shitty poetry

yellow backbone to grey matter

I can turn around and on my feet and look behind me
but my Axis underneath is black and made up of debris
And slick it is, maybe sticky with a hint of chemical
But I am only Atlas, and I am made of bone

If it's a job to support the heavens
I'd say I'm not paid enough
Because supporting my own mind
is a thing I surely know won't last
Axis knows it's a fraud,
one I made myself,
but he's always been my brother,
right hand man and missing self

and I know we've chosen the compromise,
a wonderful one, at that
but I only wish to reach him
down his archive-private-hell
And i know what the compromise meant,
but I've forgotten its words and he's forgotten his shell
and since then I live inside it and sometimes he pays a visit
it's really not his fault that he brings memories explicit
but I'd really rather have his service done without the hassle of having to deal with the aftermath of flashbacks and shadows looming on a cornered mind, and my vision goes black and I am left behind and he controls and he's attentive
and he's vigilant for me,
he looks out for those who look like him,
he stares at the door,
locks it, hides the key,
and still he watches till his eyes grow dry and he can't even blink

And I know.
I know I'm my own stranger,
that I've lost before finding
and fallen before rising
but I just wish to heal a broken neck.
Hell, it might sound stupid
and quite horrid to envision,
but if it's him I have within
then he will bear an incision and a stitch
That's really all it takes him to be less of a bitch,
or so I hope.