As the smoke lingers

In and out, of rehab

I mean, most of the time, no one quite speaks literally.

They don’t know, they can only assume

of what it takes to shatter a soul.

What robs you of your sleep, probably, maybe, most definitely, what do I know?

Fragmented  little puzzles, crossroads of the mind.

This piano, these hands, this rusty ol’ surface.

The out of tune, the mystery yet to swoon.

You can’t mold me, this telltale realm of space, my voice metamorphosed.

The margins within are so narrow, the wisdom of things scarce.

The fear of your own oblivion, you say you wait for nothing

but the gutless in you knows, that’s what you have been surrounded with

and so the familiar comforts in its veil.

This overflow of the conventional, makes me yearn for masks

aesthetically unacceptable, it amuses me.

The joyous music, the bitter tongue.

But then again, tenderness outburst,

defies brutal rage, beauty repelled at those that sought it only with their eyes.

You stare long enough at the gush, static motion

of paralyzing waves; this sonic rumble, and you understand.

The stronger they rush, the slower they recede

The dominance in the force, a halt in the hearts

In the eternity of a second, stretchered far too long, far too far.

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Subtle

The smoothest crimes, are perfected subtly
Less asphyxiated, too little to be this much
Punctuation marks, shouldn’t be judged
Slamming doors shut, shunning the ambient
A hollow sand dune you dip your head in
And walk in, with your hands
I mean,
To be quite honest
Sometimes I walk for miles and still wonder where everyone’s at
And other times, I look straight at you, without moving, and crumble
Fear of abandonment; and all you did was abandon
Attachment disorder; and all you did was pull and cut
Hold and slaughter
The wire that wasn’t meant to be touched
Or so it said
On the last note you left
After all,
Smooth crimes are subtle

Rain Man

I will contradict myself in every way, to drive you in circles

and say these words, that mean nothing to me

Maybe I was wronged; flowers don’t grow from concrete

The hidden meanings, motivational phrases,

out of context.

 

So advanced, double-think, nervous laughter

Pedestrians; both figuratively and literally

Every step taken is supposed to leave blisters on feet this sore

Only the morally superior, will possibly observe dementia

as a two-way road to salvation

Just as the witness becomes the culprit

For not confessing

The day to day musings, suddenly fall to place

“I have plenty. Look, I can count as many fingers

as toes” said the ruler to his foes

“I’m left-handed, is that bad luck?” When a confident man becomes conceited

There’s no going back

“I… excuse me

sir

it wasn’t raining till you got here”

“Well, in that case,

umbrella for two?”

And just as I prayed for mud, the pavement was washed cleaned.

 

Defranchise your soul

This perverse utopia
Makes me question
The myth that won’t wash away

Anything is as everything you want it to be
An epidemic for a cure

Cattle getting sick; slaughtered
To protect the herd
Its head, bowling downhill
Undead

Whether you’re the weapon, or the target
Or the trigger
For the unsincerities of the seeker
You are just as responsible

Either you sink the ship,
Or let me go

Whether you invent fire
By friction and stones
Or
Defranchise your soul

You,
Awoken mirage of dreams
See it for what it is
Yet take bread for loaf

Them,
The perfect example
Of monsoon running through their veins
Fate decided for them

Gentle, be gentle
There is a thin line, between being honest
And being a dirtbag
Don’t cross it

The man in the sky

Your shape becomes transparent

Hands that spoke for you,

Now linger in this demise

Leave no clue, maybe tomorrow

Hope is one filthy bastard, isn’t it?

Maybe the day after, maybe never

You are bartered, material for sentiment

Word for word. You are not ready

My trademark is the wind. What’s yours?

Kind of like, a crying violin

The man in the sky takes credit for

Borrowings, these. Carefully spilling unto your sponge-like swaying

The archer that strikes from behind

It must make sense to synchronize a body

into a series of the complex; rust unpolished.

Less sense, however, to digest the susceptibility

of the rough, with the raw, with the weary

To the orphans of this gawky road, can’t even‍

I’ll pretend it’s alright, it is as much as it isn’t

You’d give it all, just to gain it all

Don’t. Even for a minute

Convince your other self

That woodpeckers carve because they sculpt.