pissy buckets of shitty poetry

a panic attack haha

I'll hear their lips twist
and their minds go to dust
as they play cellos and violins
I'll force them; they must.

This weary body of mine,
please let it rest
and grant me, instead, my mind,
never make it rust.

Waves of confusion wash over my corpse
as their bow slashes the strings
Tingling, and ringing, it sings to me and of course
i can hear one lonely entity as it thinks.

I'll hear their prayer
in ever-lasting music
and every cloud and every layer
of glowing lucid fluid

and if i don't hear every time they shift,
reposition,
move,
snap,
swing their bow and blow their flute,
move their eyes
or blink
or their brute human form,

if I don't hear IF I DONT LISTEN TO THIS RUMOR MUTE, what shall become of me?

I already am nothing more than miserable.
Perhaps a director to orchestrate the sound of my ego was needed.