Transition

My head was a throbbing mass
Of midnight hammers by a spoilt fist:
A non-existent theory gnawing on it
Like bugs on wooden crusts.
An old mirror plagued by a feel of worthlessness,
And slurry confirmation dynamic in every second’s interval
Washed down by trapped foggy breath;
If I could slit my head apart from me,
Then again if only I never existed.

People could judge me better –
As if seated on swivel chairs,
Ready to turn around any moment.

The ink jar plummeted with due debts,
Leaked and stained unforbidden,
Rebelled against margins.
A scared foreign language in the cave of taped tongue
Flung open on the face of a blurred glassy noise,
Like a print of some scraped skin
Of a body returning from wars
On papers, reflecting not like the cracked mirrors;
An art of triumph over self-erosion.

◄ My Skyscraping Thoughts

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Comments

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Ruby

Wed 9th Jan 2019 10:12

Thanks poemagraphic!🌼

poemagraphic

Tue 8th Jan 2019 20:26

Ruby this truly is transformational

once started reading one can not stop, but to marvel at your words

Po

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