from bed, i have a hammer

forcing a voice over my own that sings the right chords and delivers a tone for you to remember long distance phone calls wrapped in a cord wishing your mom would come home instead of wandering countrysides picking up strange rides, to be plucked and prodded, poked along, left with a hollow soul outline for a song

where i belong is next in line

detours never bring comfort to the longing panics and strange outlines i trace on the back of childhood menus where they never understood my order

i didn’t get what i wanted

i couldn’t complain, shut up eat, we have to beat the rain that clouds above our heads, your precipitation filled words, language without verbs, adjectives to describe the way i let you down again

without this pen, the pressing of keys, i’d think about telling you how sorry i am that i had a bad day, i didn’t live up to the version of me i put in front of you to accept the facade i know you want to fuck without intimacy, that’s implied, a version of you shaking hands and casting sunlight glares with mirror eyed stares helps you rest assured that you are right

i’m nothing

a whore to your ego

i’ll bend, twist, rise, and fall, a sacrificial blow up doll without plastic creases leaving marks, smooth

who’s your pimp?

which way do you go after me for your hours of shaken soul confiscation and desertification?

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