Breath becomes dim
sort of like the shadows that are afraid
of coming into the light,
but I still cannot feel my senses.
I am brain dead beyond emotional identification.
I am hurting because my tears
have no way of getting the signal
that its
time to fucking feel.
Hard like cement repenting
sin from soils of sour
smiles. I hang dry in a wet
sea of torment
not knowing the outcome
of my animal planet.
Once a stone of granite turned
into a water sacrafice
through actions of evil
I shall wait until the ring
that tones my def poetry
is heard.
A system so deep down
that sound
can't make me weep in G major.
A happy tune, no way...
not unless my soul brother can
eat tunafish with a magical pur
of his own happiness,
potentially destroyed
by someone else's amusement and demons.
Only to hit me with
crys of my mothers own inner destruction
and the taste of my depression
exploding into the airwaves
only to hear silence from the mouth
of my creator.
I am sorry mother beyond words,
my day
and night
and night
has been filled with the fake plastic
that has assembled the
fragments
of my child
and inner reality.
So sorry for senses so shocked
that sensory overload would be a welcomed change
from the smoke rising circles
collecting
in squares.