Lazaretto
I'm Bringing Hippocampus Back
Antiquated energies object to me in real time, a denial of my hippocampus and its past-times. I am doused in philanthropic sympathy, though seething, with an incessant desire to buck the first thing that's breathing. Metacarpal misery, my grip is slowly slipping, the past is slightly fading, and robbing the goodness from my memories, jaded.
I am sauntering slowly toward a barren and bitter future, bereft of hope and healing, guaranteed and sealed to suffer. A Harlequin romance minus the affection, steeped in emotional mayhem, framed with fictional frivolity. My grin is tapered unwillingly, manipulated unwittingly. Your sentiment laded with chicanery has dimmed my wits and made them plain, you see.
The joy of robbing bravery, maliciously, from deep within the catacombs and annals of my history. But I am finding histamine, in the snot rags piled on my waste heap. Courting hope, but she's elusive and clever, the hide-and-seek game invoked with the pull of a lever. Running toward this sunrise, though afar on the horizon, while vaunting my fears and their dread through surmising.
Crippled by wonder and wishing, as I wander and wallow in my dreams which are wasting away. They hang on my shoulders like tattered old garments, a murder scene, of a bloodied and battered display. But waste not, wanting nothing, the pain oozes thickly with pus, dripping slowly, I'm covered, with the massacred dreams in my head.
As such, I am lusting, as I covet, the path to finding that which is lovely, the fairy stories of Miss Muffet eating her curds and whey. But alas, this pleasant fiction is beyond my reach, with its benedictions and sonorous edifications, for I am swimming up the stream of affliction, while naked and afraid.
I am sauntering slowly toward a barren and bitter future, bereft of hope and healing, guaranteed and sealed to suffer. A Harlequin romance minus the affection, steeped in emotional mayhem, framed with fictional frivolity. My grin is tapered unwillingly, manipulated unwittingly. Your sentiment laded with chicanery has dimmed my wits and made them plain, you see.
The joy of robbing bravery, maliciously, from deep within the catacombs and annals of my history. But I am finding histamine, in the snot rags piled on my waste heap. Courting hope, but she's elusive and clever, the hide-and-seek game invoked with the pull of a lever. Running toward this sunrise, though afar on the horizon, while vaunting my fears and their dread through surmising.
Crippled by wonder and wishing, as I wander and wallow in my dreams which are wasting away. They hang on my shoulders like tattered old garments, a murder scene, of a bloodied and battered display. But waste not, wanting nothing, the pain oozes thickly with pus, dripping slowly, I'm covered, with the massacred dreams in my head.
As such, I am lusting, as I covet, the path to finding that which is lovely, the fairy stories of Miss Muffet eating her curds and whey. But alas, this pleasant fiction is beyond my reach, with its benedictions and sonorous edifications, for I am swimming up the stream of affliction, while naked and afraid.
Comment On This Poem ---
I`m Bringing Hippocampus Back
I`m Bringing Hippocampus Back
