Venting is fun, venting is fun.
So here's how it begins.
My brain rots
Imagined or otherwise.
And just as that snake
So does mine wake
And here the ache
Gouges at badly-scabbed wounds.
But bad blood dries and I
Buried all my skeletons.
I cremated them, so why
Don't their deaths feel genuine?
Because I wish someone would pry,
Dig them up; a perverse treasure hunt.
Yet I'm left to walk
On eggshells around omelettes
(What's that phrase?). I squawk
Apologies and guised threats:
And stand back as you take stock;
I'm sorry for my failings.
Though it's no fault of mine;
My fears are once again confined.