(de)construction.

2005-09-11 11:58 a.m.

this is the trap, letters my own hand has not formed
seem hardly to fit me, anymore, so i've found
a place hollowed out in the back of a building
where the supernatural happens to air conditioners humming

and i feed the ghosts of what were once
human beings, my head huddled low, my pen
hardly scratching
this is a long story, in a heart made of feelings
wrapped on over another in headstrong reverie
until, to feel, i must feel everything

every scrape and itch and shiver that has come
at one point or another
to define me, a story of normalcy gone strange and staring
into papers in some one else's basement
calling home under the blankets, i've gone under again
can you save me
and spending the next few happy weeks

in the lap of luxury, hospital beds where friends smile above me
feeling purposed on this pretence, my own self hatred
does such good works without me
that i no longer feel the need to exist beside, and without it
i am learning to simply be

utilized in the great scheme and far reaching localities
to the rooftops that were singing rocks
into our bodies, now carry on our genes onto other lonely movers, who feel the same sharp sting in night timed watching.

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