I like to start off by saying I’m lost. There ain’t a map, way, or glossary to take it at all. Depraved. It ain’t sacred. I’m naked. Response? Scared of impatience, so anxious. I’m taking a fall. Fallacious. Paying contours gray with the absence of paint on the walls. State of elation? Sapped. And my grace?… is an absence of substance I take overhauled. Pass me your loving. Stay away from me. God. Give me a break. As I claim disarray as my God. Nirvana takes over as I ‘filet and then prod at my flesh ’til the red blends innately with smog. Americanah. So contagious. It’s gone. Now picture courageous in ‘bombs. To the point where bravery borders deception. Post-mortem, now all the good efforts feel ‘sort of neglected. I didn’t step on the landmine to be regarded as a hero. Now I man an unwanted purple heart for my ignorance. Zeroes and ones, binary, read on the backlight. A robotic grin erupts as they’re playing their bagpipes. Demolish my eardrums. Monkey hears no evil, but he fears what you strum, and. You pluck your guitar strings when we unveil relief in percussion.
A scar isn’t a scar without something that fits you. That’s why lovers carve into bark their somber initials. Take a stab in the dark. The knife? The same that my wrists used. The pain in your heart that’s engraved by a chisel. We stay after dark to praise a modern-day raising of art casing after a summer’s day wane in the park. I summoned your name, feigned dumb, but okay, as rain blushes. The chain rusting bathes off with the beige/bronze that pays homage to veins, like handcuffs snapped off, like a slash, as the blood lathers and stains. You can’t cut it, you can’t stomach the pain. You lunge after sensations you’re addicted to; as plains plummet in range. Don’t lay me to rest. Just lay me to misuse. Just lie me to waste. Let me lay with my issues. As the Nile drain drives me away, I wish trees were designed out of clay so my tears could cry them away. Wash out delays, instead of watching it blossom. They lied. There isn’t a foundation once you hit bottom. Staying awake, after days crouched from the sharpshooting. I call it a camouflage daze: Rehearsing what to say, so you sound sane when you talk to them.