jumble

essentially, endlessly lost in a loop of thoughts
ideas that have little meaning
my words lack action
In a crowd I tend to forget myself
I find it easier to mingle
in polite society
because
The words of my life are arranged
like magnets on a fridge
disparate, disorganized
constantly reshuffled
but never changing
shaping the mask that you all see
so many ways to sell a tired idea
solid medication, mixed with desperate symbols
leading to a confused sense
of personality
rejection and regeneration lead me
to a place of meditation and slavery
primal urges breed sex, and hunger
together I mix them with exhaustion and secrecy
to form…
something new
an unfamiliar shape
released in depressing colors
and foreign rhythms
that so few will see

 

 

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