UntitledMature

Questioning one's self to understand one's self

Flesh is nothing more than cryptic messages,

Worn by the promises of things getting better,

How can it get better when I know nothing of that path?

It’s not the scars that worry me, but what they connect to,

A past bearing a broken ballad of frozen, discarded pictures,

Quite frequently they banish me to a delusional paradise where

Death reaps every complicated nerve, leaving me to work from a broken

Spine, a self-destructive catharsis alibi,

Everyone carries the burden of their caskets, laced with storylines that take away

The pain and sacrifices,

Caches of haunting memoirs dance in my sanity like laughing ghosts, their silhouettes

Casting familiar stances in the sadistic harmony I call life.....

The End

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