I once knew a boy named Lu
He didn't have a clue
That whatever he touched
He'd scramble and screw
He stared at his ink-stained fingers
Saw damage he couldn't outrun or undo
Broken type-writer, ink flowing
Same sillhoute of a one-sided story
Words smudged in blue
The shade of wasted potential or unsaid glory
The aftershocks of his words only strengthened his shadows
He only saw sorrows, and ignored the thorns
They lit their pitchforks and chased him, yet he mourns
The cycle of messes he tried to paint over
Rather than moving onto the next canvas, he held the broken board with his life
It was worn through, wasn't it?
But mental manias don't submit
Screams of skin submerged in fire, shriveling and exposing a twisted desire
If he unpeeled the layers of subconscious trickery, would he be a liar?
For doubting every word he semi-spoke but really dished out on a black screen, a moon before Halloween
When pushed to the edge
He'd cross his fingers while forging a phony pledge
He'd speak to fill the seemingly endless void
Sometimes he'd ask himself if he was ever a boy
Or was his heart always that of a stone-cold droid?
Puzzled and programmed, hacked into some horrific hoax
Yet the mistake in the mirror coaxed him into looking within
Self-reflection brought empty promises of a crooked correction
To fulfill the longing
To amount to something
Yet something always seizes and sizzles on the tip his tounge
It can simmer into something next summertime, right?
Excuses can undergo execution, and he'll have no excuse but to open his eyes?
Or will he look back on this throwaway thought as expired lies?
YOU ARE READING
ONE MORE TIME
PoetryA follow-up to my last poetry collection, One More Time follows feelings of fluctuating temporary peece and recurring sorrows, caused by outside factors, or uncontrollable feelings from within.
