Writing sonnets to occupy empty spaces
of day-to-day, which don't ever feel free, thus these
freestyle meditations fog out the rat races
going on around me. Life feels like a disease,
at least with regards to ways we *make a living* -
breathing feels paused, anxieties constant increase
manufactures clenched existence, unforgiving
posture bracing for impact against lack of peace
of mind. I used to self-medicate steadily,
and quit to break cycles, thus now hide behind word
scribbles like alcohol was used - I'll readily
admit I'm weak/wack/lost cause/lost effect/absurd
*man* trapped only in mind, but shit feels confining,
so fuck it, I'm out - see what blue sky's divining.
1 comment:
Aren't we all a little weak and absurd?
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