from bed, blocked

Is that you?

same thoughts and disturbed view everyday left with the few who follow sympathy and lag behind misery this cross legged toad that sat alone sniffing out the bog to find home never moving far enough away from you and curfew was eight mate so find a date who won’t judge this decision to escape to a place where poetry doesn’t rely on pain here’s a happy thought, before i start let me warn you writing happy sets me off. not happy in and of itself if left on the shelf we can observe the way this often used idea gets batted about we question its existence where does it lurk sadness is something we tend to jerk by the collar of confusion with little delusion that it’s a state we can relate and tears get questioned as often as your smile so skeptical we are of one another’s denial file that away. what’s behind that? you do it too much. it’s fake your fake for fucks sake let’s make a mask much less malleable maybe skeletons it’s why they’re favored if left to bones of existence we’d have to explain ourselves better it wouldn’t be shown or overblown we’d be less alone and not always pulling at this phone. pushing more than pulling yet who is extolling the belief that i care what you’d share suddenly i would be less bare i’ll make a mask out of anything wood straw or brick i’m all three piggies living in the thick of some quickly read book with no meaning. clever or full of shit i question that everyday. it could really go either way. hiding. 

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