Violent violet butterflies without wings
They enter my head
Nailed
To my chest
When I try to convince myself
That my pulse can stop
At any minute
Although I know
That this is not the case
Just a dancing cannonade
Of out of sync music, fever, cut conversations
Circling conducive circumstances
Of the circus clowns
Not knowing what to do with their lives
So, they dare to disturb the peace of mine
While
I walked myself into the corners
Of this earth
Not worth existence
Where there is no one and nothing coherent
With my persistent paths plotted
Pivoting the quest
For quiescence
Of all my senses
Gravely flustered
From the amount of malaise
Meandering muddle
*
June – September 2022
***
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About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
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