dead things

just a passing interest. a strange and unreasonable fascination.

my mind breeds dead things

choked weeds and blackened limbs

scrabbling from the ground

grasping for a purpose

(and no one told them they had none)

 

how can one know hunger

without knowing what it is to be full?

how can one feel themselves breaking

when they have never felt truly whole?

(darkness is merely the absence of light.)

 

whispers and tendrils sing to me half-asleep

as i drift again into pointless dreams i won't remember

you can say you're tired,

no one observes you as much as you do

(i observe because there is nothing to say.

none of it matters, you know.

nothing is wrong with silence

not a symptom of a disorder

a breakage in the brain

rotted cancerous tissue

falling to pieces

entropy and rust.)

 

(when they do take notice of me after all

why do they seem afraid?)

 

my mind breeds dead things

grey-skinned and yellow-eyed and shunning day

they whisper in my voice

and i wish on falling stars

(and i feel oh so bitter

wishes are for those

who just don't

understand.)

 

(i bite a hole in me

and drain this hideous color

drip by drip.)

Author's Note

look, it's my latest wordvomit. i'm not even trying to pretend i'm making sense anymore.

Reviews

[kris reed]

I never knew vomit could read so well! You may claim it doesn't make sense, but I feel like it spoke straight from my own thoughts, so maybe that means I don't make any sense... I really liked it, how you paced, how the words and rhythm squeeze together and then burst apart, just like monotonous thought. Great piece, whether you care for it or not. Thanks for writing it.

[Lyzzy Redd]

It doesn't make sense, and yet it does... Does that make sense? haha, but seriously, it's very thought-provoking.