trussed up turkey style and

hopped up on lack of guile

my wiles are merely differential

to the fear that keeps me down

and I’m sound of mind but

hollow of sound my voice ungrounded

founded on this rocky void

a foundation of uncertain coils

as you can see I’m not merely

cracking up I’m tearing up and

bleeding through the fissures in this

poorly sealed vault of a skull

wherein is all I’ve been and all I could

ever even dream to be but

never rolling back that stone

may have been in ages past

good for me?

but GOOD for me for keeping

my nose clean and my affairs

in neat order gently concealed feelings

but the room I’m in is a hole

and I’m a hoarder



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