Funny
How you seem to digress on a large bread basket
Without tearing apart the edges
You can dare hold the snout of my gut between your sharp claws
But you don't bother touching the precious stones over your head
Your mind is a bloody cable car
It's been everywhere
But you can't allow it to be what you destine
But you can let others have a reach of what you detest
What you cram together in a compression is where you live
Between those tiny little spaces and gaps
That's where you'd find yourself; dug deep and embedded towards beads of curiosity
Your bed is covered with warm blankets that meet your expectations and keep your sinful body warm
But the newborn child at the hospital 15 years ago was never given a blanket, but an article of cloth in a rather bag of curse...
A bag that readies you on the go
A securing tape that sticks its residue towards your most sensitive patches of skin
This makes no sense, but indifference wakes up the mind
It makes joy become a feeling of shame
But it makes shame an element of sin
My fingers dab; they dab firmly on the thorns and raindrops that dot my skin
There's always a way to get into your heart
Maybe not always
But mildly, in sheer crafts of serenity
There is never serenity
The system blows upon a pleasure of rage and anger
That system is your vocal ability
But your vocal ability is your soul
Spirit says it all
But it depends
It depends on the red of the leaves
The red of the leaves that decay under the blank consumption of chaos and poison
Everything around you relates to your motion of gesture
Everything around you wants to make you relive the moment to review and thank it later
Everything around you shields your feeling of desperation, but would reopen your wounds
and stab them all over again; repeatedly, deadly, merrily, and youthfully
Even your skin will grow out and wizen one day
It will wizen and leave your blood coloring the texture of sandpaper on your raw flesh and crude blood
You know you'd find the verge
And you'd spot a beautiful day
Among all of the days that break and tear
Upon all the tearing, you would count on the sores
Between the little spaces, sparks shall burn down the past and words of yesterday
Wisdom or stupidity
Vertigo is waiting for you at the midst volcano of dead end's vanilla twilight.
YOU ARE READING
Mellifluous Murmurs
Poetry❁ Freedom is allowing the crisp air to guide you through this forest we can call society. ❁