(6) Greased Gloves:
Pry my hands from perception.
Ply walls beyond conception.
Fly to transcend reception...
...
Take up your gloves, soak them in oil, while you tape and toil, give a hand, place your demand.
Please, show me boon, my soul lives in a dune, I cannot squander, I beg, don't ponder.
"Sure thing, I'll make you king! Gifts we'll bring, and choirs will sing! Sure thing."
I'm aching, my eyes are baking, the lawn of my barren mind, again to raking.
"I'm on it! You're worth it, trust me, you'd make a great ditch digger, and one day, see your last moment by your hand's trigger."
"Forget that, just sit back, I'll stay on track."
Worry not, my knowledge you taught, I'll take your word, you'll make me heard. I trust you, you'll keep a zoo.
"Back to the barn, boy, back to the farm, your mother darns with cheap yarn."
...
"Just chill, you mustn't kill, it's against my will. So simmer and sway, sit and watch T.V. and learn about the sea"
Worry not, I know enough, it's rowdy and rough, I prefer to watch my sink, stare and don't blink. It may seem insane, my favorite character is the drain, I can relate to it in pain.
YOU ARE READING
Cervical Cogitationum
PoetryTranslates to "Pillow of Thoughts" in Latin. An autobiographical poetry conceptual album. Tells the story of my past, and reasonings for introversion. I seek nothing but to tell a story, and to get what has gone untold off of my chest. The pillow of...
