(12) Personality: INFJ/P:
The time has reached tranquility. The clock needs not batteries, for its existence is no longer of use.
The screens stare, and the lights flare. The pseudo idiosyncrasy has overtaken the minds around, and buried them in the ground.
(Boy): "Hey man, check this game out!"
When one looks for too long, their eyes are placed wrong, and their warm human skin, is a cold slate of icy mold, and the last grains of gold, are stolen and sold.
(Woman Teacher): "Alright. Homework out!"
I've been a drone. Petrified to stone, and one that does not roll. When one has seen the other side of under the tide, they catch but a glimpse.
But a cry, but a sigh. Floating there, in the nuclear reactor waters, the corpse of themselves, put your humanity on shelves, hear your silence, see the lifeless arm, it no longer can feel harm.
(Teen Boy): "Where do you come up with this shit?"
The keys, major to minor, prog to whiner, the symphony goes, from the nose down to the toes, the sound grows. Hear the sounds of morality, and who hears how high the note, have found it to be a sinking boat.
While your personality is loading, the radial fear you're boding, in the air; it's floating. It's a dead and done deed, t'was you planted the seed. Over, a keeled clover it's over.
The echoes ring, of my personality bell ding, one of many, one of millions, submitted to the curse of introversion.
(Girl): "No, no, no you're not untalented, you just haven't found it yet!"
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...
