I think the ache begins at my lower back,
The hurt that I got due to an accident
Or a muscle collapsing.
Things or two it taught me about distraction,
and wholesome love.
The pain shift to my left angular hand.
The palm unfocused, floating in the air
The knee doesn’t stop there,
It bends & cracks
with a peel of medieval ache,
The old vintage era of swollen eyes.
I see it all through the staircase of my dizzy body.
But what about the eyes?
Will they shut the spineless playlist of brown air
or soak in some more tears?
They refuse to talk. To sleep.
Eyes are the biggest culprit any era can produce.
They twitch, itch but won’t eat up your wound.
My anxiety is a shapeshifter,
until i put my fingers through the sheet of night.
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.
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