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08 May 2011 @ 09:26 am
I don't pretend I know my thoughts,
I'm turning corners bent for me,
With pockets for second hand dreams
and weary feet under neon beams,
I am cold upon miles of concrete.

What am I going to do?
Please, Please tell me!
About this routine malaise,
This twisting turbulent haze
That fills my innards with dread,
as I'm compressed into silence
and converge with indifference.

Somewhere this world overwhelmed,
A child's fantasy turned bitter with truth;
With the rearing of relentless teeth
and incisions into unsuspecting skin.

Cosy thoughts of a new life,
I've painted their tender portraits
with a palette of joy...
and I hold, I hold them dear,
In pockets of sleep
where I see clearly.

Upon wake, I breathe and walk on,
In service to some obscure survival,
A fear entrenched into my blood.
Am I but a ...
A kafkaesque cliche,
a caricature of a woman,
An existential crisis
in an empty
Current Mood: indifferentindifferent