misplaced brains poem

Misplaced Brains

Some days, there are endless words,

And some days,

I live in contrary of continued strife.

Popular by demand,

Unwilling in wasted, apathetic action.

 

Broken, and begging,

In parks, and on the outermost edges;

Of the lands where the spirits linger,

Where cadavers lay flat.

At least the fog is a guise some morns’,

Blanketing the lands in false reprise.

 

Those, asking to hold;

I, needing to be held.

Skin sticky – keeping little inside.

Far too porous – clogged coffee filter existence.

 

From the pictures of an old-age days.

To the pathetic anger of high-school dreams;

Laughing at the fishing-line-thin teenage certainty,

Of all that was never to be,

In all the places that were never to be.

Some dead-end cul-de-sac,

From what one used to witness in the haze,

That clouded those prickly, sharp-edged days.

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