your body all sore
and bruised
and cut.
your wet dreams proved false
purely fantasy,
though hard to distinguish from
reality,
you go in search of some
real water.
lubed up, croak gone.
the maniacal laughter
that was inside,
is now out.
everything is queer,
the water is clear;
and beautiful,
just like your mind.
you're laughing about last night,
when you lost yourself.
and though you feel
more yourself now,
{ you're still to be found;
on the cement ground,
from which the cuts came from-
blame the beat of the drum.
now you're missing blood and skin;
the vital droplets from within. }
accidentally hilarious,
just one more, it won't happen again.
in fact,
it will never happen again,
you say as your high
goes down,
your maniacal laughter
dies down
and the sinking feeling of
shit
and hot air
weighs down your stomach
and pounds inside your head.
you're now conflicted and distraught
with who you are
and where you have gone.
blame where you have been.
No comments:
Post a Comment