Organdy threads in each piece of the cement box; there is no harm in imagining your own absence, but each sentence exploits neuro-psychosis in each poem; add an additive and take it, it was once my pleasure and joy now it maddens me—I have not written like this in weeks and I seize every time I get closer to myself as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me breathing in my cigarettes, death’s in the traveler being left alone in Italy; from the garden, all bodied, all that red and bleak, I cut myself with Occam’s razor; I stood in the corner ancient madness on psychological flyers at four in the afternoon discuss naturalistic fields; if I were to indulge, I glory in itself the voice of humanity nearest to me fragility in solitude, an explanation swims back every time. I can feel the institution, imagine it, letting myself touch faces when I don’t want to. Empty words drown in my head, sometimes, makes me wish I were dead beyond that idyll to remember it, while I struggle though madness is great inspiration, though muse—she is bored, she adorns whiplash and sweat of course I don’t want to write anymore right now, she makes me feel like shit. © 2021 Pseudopsychosis All Rights Reserved.
Written for the 09/07/2021 dVerse prompt: Dungeons and Derivatives.