sick and whining; a poet is

i feel radiant
in shades of gray
drawn so petulant
in fragmented meh

my insides feel
rusted and clogged
my unsides reel
in staggering instances
of grave despair

church bells ring
signalling the end
of selfish lividity

i scream until
blood flecks
my spittle
into the howling winds
raging forth so
impetuously
unimportant

hell has settled
deep into these
crystallized
accordians shaped
into wheezing lungs

radicalized impudence
in viral impediment

i am going to bed
the world is shit
my head aches deeply
and all i want is you
but i will settle
for a pillow filled
with rusted nails
in the absence of
your pure divinity

seems about right
if not totally
un-fucking-fair

2 thoughts on “sick and whining; a poet is

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