carry me home in a pot of severed circles
i must become a square to become more well rounded
i am but a recluse giving french kisses to the public eye
visine is the stop sign caution of the day
at night i have the flashlight sniffles as a direct pathway to clarity
my body feels soapy but there is no streaky scene i'm squeaky clean
i invite myself to ceremonies where all themes are monolithic
i take several falls until i stand with all bones broken
nothing makes sense anymore so i stop sensing
nothing has a groove anymore so i imitate max headroom
nothing pulls me in anymore so i push myself to outer limits
when nothing is left i will be one with the deer and such
jigsaw puzzles become shards of glass of wilted, fragmented souls
this is what we call life now but there will always be disagreements
Categories:
headroom, how i feel, world,
Form: Free verse