conflicted.
I see more than
what I want.
cutting the surface
just to feel [alive] again
with skin- like canvas
treating late nights
like dead poetry
reading too deeply
into something not worth- looking into
and feeling too much
for nothing.
when the ink stops
and tears taste bitter once more
will you remember?
.no i think not.
with the sting of awakening
and my skin
like canvas- way to cluttered
metaphorically speaking
i’ll break
between each
fluctuating- breath.
burning my soul
just [ a little]
m o r e
SO.
tonight i drink
to the art of failing.
watching pieces
of my life
stumble. listening
.to the static.
and
those late nights
that left me
breathless
and that canvas.
all to cluttered
it’s looking more like skin.
I’ll stumble
forming sentances
harmoniously with my nostalgia
like something from
some
fucked up story book.
forming circles
with a carving knife
watching my skin breathe
with these late night
breakdowns.
i’ll
create
landscapes.
and that canvas.
it screams
perfection
this is mine.
