(no subject)
Courting Insanity
Construction of counted lines
the flimsiest fantasies flitting
on the guilty-pleasured wings
of moths in a poet's mind
flocking to a flame that tastes
like cough syrup
and looks like a black hole.
Can't quit the desires, sick-sweet,
thick on sore hearts & healthy bods
but try pointing to any single clarity
past the singularity.
and fuck, once again, a poem stops short of its conclusion! fuck! there goes my train of thought. *sigh*
Construction of counted lines
the flimsiest fantasies flitting
on the guilty-pleasured wings
of moths in a poet's mind
flocking to a flame that tastes
like cough syrup
and looks like a black hole.
Can't quit the desires, sick-sweet,
thick on sore hearts & healthy bods
but try pointing to any single clarity
past the singularity.
and fuck, once again, a poem stops short of its conclusion! fuck! there goes my train of thought. *sigh*