My mind. Punctured, tainted scarce.
Fleeting and whimsical.
Perpetual bliss spirals down my vertabrae, only to be outdone by wild winds of plague.
To be made up only to be torn down.
My mind is hidden and wired.
It takes offense and then succombs to the norm.
Much like a torpedo through the airwaves it will not be silenced.
Reading Chuck P’s ‘Diary’ really inspired me.
No comments:
Post a Comment