Night. Trees. An amnesiac painting.
Flying by, the mailman stops and reads:
"Rage, angst – the symptoms".
Flies away. No prescriptions.
Breaking glasses in the windows of our minds,
Wondering what one might find within
– You will not be pleased to hear it –
Your patience is running thin.
Hearing the sound of your grave mistakes,
Watching float by no corrections,
you'll do what it takes
– a million takes –
Perfectionist. Heart dissections
– Emptiness is not a pretty thing to look at.
Pathologic piano playing with the purpose of remembering,
You burn the photos so they can be more authentic,
You cut the pieces forgetting they just duplicate,
and triplicate, and mutilate
– one by one, tick-tick-tick –
bombs fell; fire up; you rise
and raise the bar of achieving demise
– oh, what a thing you despise, lies.
Repetition is not good in your writing,
so if my brain was a novel it'd suck.
Concept: bad luck. Execution: bad luck.
sweat. in your eyes. because you're tired of looking
– for; at – same shit.
just sing –
An appropriate alternative to shouting.
The night comes in just in time,
never too late for some good ol' darkness
– Isn't it funny how we chose to close our eyes when we can't see anything anyway? –
Nonetheless;
I like it better like that.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Parenthesis
PoetryOne of two twin collections (the other one is Ampersand). This is an experiment. I've decided on a good number of music albums, will listen to them alone, with headphones, max volume, and write poetry to them. Thanks for reading. - ntk Estimated co...
