My mind is like a room with writing on its walls. Stories and schemes paint out patterns telling maddening lies and truths and more
But my eyes are glazed over and point to the floor
And the words out of reach are the idol I adore
My sanctuary, freedom. My final saboteur
My hands are like a machine with blueprints in its archive, tasked to make designs with beauty at their core
And that robot has one drive, to spread its reach across the world
But my cogs came rusted, made to order for a madman, and my brain has a short- a few cells too short
That is to say there is only one cell, and in it I reside
For all of my life I will serve hard time
But for what crime is it that I am charged?
For dreaming too much and trying too hard
enough said
YOU ARE READING
Should I? Commuting Poetic Injustice
PoetryWhat do you get when you tell someone that they can express their true self from behind the protection of anonymity? You get genuine representation. You get everything but the face This is my poetry collection. You'll get everything but my face. Wha...
