Self Portrait

I’ve lived through the fires at the mountain top crest
wrestling with words that flow freely from the nest of duress
they’ve broken free, hurtling at lightning breakneck snail-fed speeds across the living room
floor it and kill it so the corners can ignore it and we’ll be free to reform
it is the word that breaks you and makes you, it is the words that you often mistake
for a world that loves you and hates you, it is instead the world that relates to you
and the worst part of it is it always imitates you
your offspring underestimates the powers that be
in this tainted strange and the age of revolutionary freight in the form
of trains and carriage houses in the cafes and your broken crates
all of them words to cremate in the great blue suns of that far off world
all meaningless and meandering in the great scheme of all things
a mistake in the great blue drops of the ocean’s fate
you create what you want in this world of kill or imitate
thy will be done as it is in that own personal heavenly sent hell
a vocal precipitate that neither understands nor believes in your drug fuelled
date and live on in a world that knows your pain, but cares not for your fragility frame
replace that sphere that you respect and hold so dear for time has come to split you up
to hold the cup as you sip the adverts up and talk some more about
that day at work, that way you walk around beaming in your new frock
and all its muck
you’re stuck
no longer can you, will you, please do
run for the hills as the garden gnomes of your belligerence
run amuck


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