Mental Health
Fuck, I'm dying...
Forever glider of the landscape, inclines put in line by the stomps from the ancestors—the fuck is this spectrum—Strider effortlessly on the grip tape, pays in pain, late fines, on the double both ways. Don’t need your sympathy; I wanted to risk my spine, middle finger always remains fine. Always. No blinder intelligence skipping through green lights, fiddler of the flow. Mystifying the daily life guidance from death’s novocaine; confused? Well, that’s your confidence going, Thomas Wayne—wait, your bat was stillborn? Death’s for nothing, not for this comic; oh well. Seeking the journey, trying to predict its ending compulsively—this vessel—after the capitalist ad line. But in the meantime, too fine for the tricks belonging to the human credulity of you all’s connective, closed trade. Winks too consistent for me. Signals don’t gleam; we’re in the universe where they are forever unseen—let’s say. Different kind of pirate plunderer in the Skyline that clears the bridges. Still more of a leisurely Walker; all feelings remain mutual—you don’t get it. Fuck some futures hold. Why bother—that’s what I keep saying. Then fix the vessel.
By Willem Indigo9 days ago in Poets
Gulf of Consciousness
I repel into the depths of revelation Snapping at the end of My sturdy hemp rope My drowning head collides With the dry soles of my feet Neck cracking audibly Flecks of spittle fly into the breeze Whiplash rules Head dangling but attached Hands twisted and knotted Behind my burden-bent back I dangle above a chasm Brimming with the emptiness of my past The density of the truth drags me Into its wide gravitational path Faced with only one viable choice Be devoured by history or Fight through the darkness Waging war with my psyche
By K.B. Silver 12 days ago in Poets
