Some kind of self deprecation
For years lost,
Crossed off in a notebook, unnoticed
In imagined ink
Crinkled in a wrinkled hand.
A veil of indifference cages
Some kind of self deception
In a prison head
Where daily life hits,
Misfits like a
Bent key jamming
Into warped motel room doors.
Corridors lead me back to
Unutterable thoughts
Misshapen and unspoken in my mouth
Unformed, flaccid
Mistaken in my youth
For someone who cared.
But perhaps I did,
In a fit of stupidity and
Infinite vapidity -
A dumpster trail,
Now ignored -
'Cause people painted as heroes
Are typically those you should despise.
I can still smell the old pages
Turning like tricks,
Stark words, intoning nothing
As infinity dissolves in depressive eyes.
"Please don't touch me,
I'm old and delicate."
A broken bitch
Unhinged and unhandled,
Slapped with ink
And a head hissing too late
With alley cat lust.
Screwed uncontrollably
By time's rhythmed thrusts.
Overthinking is a disease
Yet no one seems to think.
In my prison head
The keys jam, frail,
Succumbing, derailed,
Dissolving in dark eyes.
"Please touch me,
I'm old and delicate."
