Nettles stinging beneath (what is it? muscle, tissue..?) my skin
Evolving dread, alarming doom in my stomach
Unlearning my own essence
Reeling
Overthinking
Punished by my shadowy jailor
Reeling
Oddball?
Guarded
Robbed of potential
Every section of society
Snake-like recoils... or else
Shoulder-shrugs. They can't bat false eyelids!
Invisible terror I suffer's no contest for instagram followers,
Oh God, O please mama, let them, not me, drown...
Noses deep, hair weaves deep in Skinny Chai Lattes!
Flora$$$ghostw12
 7900
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Neuroprogression
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life
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OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY Flora$$$ghostw12
Poiemeh kalosHold a lamb around your neck  |
Silver tongue
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Easter Sunday
Now I finally feel the resurrection. My Father smiled at you, Like an artist gently resting his paintbrush, And, breathing out, he admired his work. |
Easter Sunday
My Father looks down on you, His children, As if you are the sun, Smoothing out his wrinkles. Believe me, he is proud of you. |
God is good
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The major generalI'm the Major General I'm smart and stern PATTERN UP YOU ain't got time on your side |
31420Thirty one thousand four hundred and twenty. Damn |
The lightExists only in certain postcodes W6 w12 are OK don't Subtract anymore though Or the light becomes disturbing Refracted in an odd wsy Because it is too far out |
Jazz tubaA silly idea |
DIS ERE BY BOBBY TIMMONSDis 'ere..." Cannonball announces, E flat sax of his all lit up In the smoke-filled club, "... is a jazz waltz." Brother Nat' s horn Plays a foreign fanfare, Proclaiming the second coming, Like a thousand tongues of Prostrated Pentecostals. This here's a whole congregation, Of foot-tapping listeners who, In the Spirit, are slain. As they pray for life in 3/4. 3 counts and no rests. Jazz. Period. No Bach Chorales, No laboured grace notes No European overthinking. A primeval urge to survive Set our ancestors, Like driven jazz drummers, Hurtling towards This promised land: thuggish, smug in its all-knowing 'un-reality'. This double-edged sword Of knowledge: Science and Faith. Which one's the gloopy black Murderous residue? Product of neuroses, Our glib hypotheses? PAIN. Is an entire people, Destined for syncopation, Like a band on the brink of combustion, Yearning for open fifths And blues scales, Imperfect cadences like Suffering unansw... |