Vertigo

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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. 

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