this is loud,meant to be spoken, like this: SHOUT
this is a to do list, written in ambiguous form
centered by my obsessive
passionate, altogether
this is to be crafted by my own
hands and lips and heart
caved in and carved out by my own
fingernails, and to be left tart
like unripened blackberries off of the bush
mind says: it’s winter time!
and there are only glass bulbs in the trees,
no fruit, no life, no nourishment
but here i am, i come LOUDLY
because of the plastic chair i have sat in,
and the tile hallways i have walked in
reciting poetry in my head
like the lunatic
like the obsessive, disabled, sorrowful, corroded, alive,
and insightful
full of Camus’ stranger
full of heartfelt characters
that i daydream of
why are the lights blinking, who ever thought of this mode “twinkling”
white lights, white lies
and late night
rampage of my
incessant, obnoxious, surrendering, and altogether
anxious mind

label me lonely,
label me wholly! involved in persecuting ideals
cross my heart with craning necks of bitterness
but i will not stay here, i will only sleep here for the night

the walk that i take from the swinging, thick doors
to my car, red box, littered with ants on my thrown away yogurt can
lasts a life time, lined with desperate steps
held in breaths
what is a day that goes by
with thoughts that make real life
a false reality within
seeping, and soaked up stems


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