Twisted streams of consciousness
Pecking at me now
The low tapping begun a decade ago
Marks its permanence
With a pronouncement of this day.
And what of the next, forgetful distracting
Doing enough to sustain this blunt erosion
Routing frustrations into elsewhere,
Wherever elsewhere may be.
Cold walls emphasize their berated presence
They go nowhere, without instruction
And instruction has instructed them to stay,
Despite the chilly fucked metaphors they bring.
Whatever these means employ
However they do to see fit these needs
To bang with impunity the need to starve on
The end and processed result is
Putrid.
Bleak outlines, revisit themselves
To look into grayed lavender
That once stood tall in warmth
Accepting and openly deserving
The right to touch and be touched.
Estranged am I, to who my body became
A dilapidated vessel of comfort,
Unused, unkempt, and
Denied.
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