Sometimes, when I can't sleep at night, I write poetry about things around me, or things I'm thinking of. I think I come up with some pretty interesting stuff. It is dark to some extent though, at the very least, its negative. Thoughts?
Fire. Flavor. Function.
Entombed in hate.
Sterile field of wonder and hope.
Angered mobs, confusion.
Honest cause in a hardened soulless entity.
Where do your powers lie now, God?
Its mass irrigates itself.
Shadow, undertones, realization.
A soothing calm wipes over the parasite’s beak.
Injection not necessary.
Compilation of confusion in a clean room.
A soft breath whispers its narcissistic cry.
Wounds make our lives worth living.
Sleek and shining in its metallic grace.
Cool and confident, calculating and compensating.
Its image will save the world, the portable cure.
The recklessness of the rich waste its potential,
those who can barely afford address the questions of the world through its alphabetical interface.
It is my tool.
I manipulate, communicate and pontificate through this implement.
A triumvirate of glass human virtue.
If my life could speak for itself, where would my memory lie?
Who better than a slighted individual to evaluate its intermittent self?
Selfish in time. Hero of induced glory. Praised by the stupid. Closed off and negative.
Qualities that define me feign my existence.
I am a fresco.
My weathered surfaces will crumble, and my crevices will become more apparent.
Who better than I to evaluate my intermittent self.
Triangulating and small minded.
Poles and roles apparent in my step and seizure.
Who better than…
Who am I?