Everybody wants to be the next insane.
try small thresholds of understanding.
then the full on alone.
which reason fault your breaking
panting incomparable semblances of the glass
concerned by no sleep
remember all worthy of this crazy never have a voice that you would ever care to hear
silent in the preambles of this crime
corrupt admiration of your beings talking
in mirage now
nothing of himself strangely absent transparencies doubting the creator has no duplicate
speak admirably of the ill
I'm serious this isn't something you'd glorify if you'd of lived through it
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
