my ribs are the house of tears of walled up cities, lost.
a sunken pool of total insanity, you might say.
i want to feel antique, like a vintage lampshade burning bright
in the corners of total darkness.
a flower of hope, blooming on my hip, on my lip.
this insanity does all the bizarre things, like a foot inside a mouth,
choking the timeline of flashbacks.
the mewl of sighs, swollen up, gazed up.
i could armor myself, like soft breeze
only at nights now, hallucinations maybe?
the broken air that traps my waist, sits next to me.
it calls me her baby.
a moist conversation.
i often hear whispers of this brain clinging my mouth,
it offers silent prayers too.
i burn with a film of oil in the tongue.
a poisoned needle that disturbs a human.
so, i paint my skin with a nude color of weeds,
to camouflage like a sky in the sky.
words lost in words.
and i wake up the next morning to repeat the same insipid steps. I create art each day.