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Indigo introvert

šŸ’™

By Paul BeckettPublished 3 years ago ā€¢ 1 min read
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Indigo introvert

My child thinks Iā€™ve changed. I probably did. But not in a way thatā€™s predictably unkind. As autonomy grows, so less facets I hide.

Thinks that ā€˜itā€™ stole all the nice bits away, But more consequentially, itā€™s mutual exchange. We both swapped components of our DNA. Iā€™m whore-ray, betrayed.

Just pay-me, avoids unnecessary delay. Heed. Pill popper plantation, canā€™t say farer? My ransom? Fuck ā€œHandsome, I hateā€

I gave ā€˜remorseā€™ in a swap for some spite. I just canā€™t deny it enlivened my fight.

You see previously, I was scared of my shadows, now critically, confident haunting dimensional. Inter splice images, upset by the frame-rate.

Seeing the effect of parabolic unraveling. Compound curves hide length in their beauty. Dazzling.

Staring face to my own pace-made, peace with my demon. Itā€™s me, see. Extrapolate, interpolate meaning.

Angels with granite heavy lids leashed down by stalkers sentience. But in anger I smoulder, little repentance.

If there is straw. I have flame, for a fee(L), pocket matches, necessitate, caught up causes, beautiful pauses.

Looking up through my lashes. I burn. Already as spent as carbon.

I didnā€™t suffer gladness at others foolhardiness, now I find irrelevant the tug of obligation. A curse my grandma gifted. Now lifted.

Cowardice costs, tolerance for everything wanes. As we cut the circulation off to our digits. Fidgety my pulse cantors.

Release my bitter banquet. Incisors bared in preparation for biting. Donā€™t insight me lightly as my enlivened intrigue requires reciprocation.

As shy as I am, I counted the spaces between letters. Iā€™m not a ā€˜regretterā€™, time grafting deserved recognition derivation. As Harrison sang-

ā€œIf you donā€™t know where youā€™re going, any road will take you thereā€

I wait while 7.5 billionaires balloon and fester. Iā€™ll jibe as court jester, never underestimate the underdog, blesser.

I confess, Iā€™m being consumed by her pleasure.

performance poetry
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About the Creator

Paul Beckett

Iā€™m a writer, horologist & joy filled fantasist. Reality to me is plastic. Iā€™m fascinated with time, quantum physics, analogue and fashion.

My writings at least 69% autobiographical, often 99%

Fav:Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams- S.Plath

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