irate

i’m fairly certain

of uncertainties

building parasites

in my infected brain

a little bit crank

that turns it dank

festering and yet

putting a bad strain

i’m bored and i’m

sore to my very

tired core, bleeding

out dumb opinions

the accented words

like spoiled milk curd

making way for crass

and cold sophistication

the breath of crowds

and the noises loud

don’t give me any space

to sigh and think

rippling notions

and forced emotions

like an alacrity of

an underpaid shrink

so i slowly close and

repose, and take an

insipid revival in

one inch of a breath

press nagging voices

out of my deaf ears

before i go and catch

out an earlier death

i’m sickened of the

fire they’re all boiling

under my charred

and overcooked skin

a little bit further

i can’t take it any longer

and my short temper

cuts itself loose again.

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