pst-ptsd

Deathlosophy being, my hidden account of wanting to do nothing with you all.
Riding bikes. The tick on the chest of a cat.
Draining, vine-like. Blood sapping. Handshakes and a fear.
These aren’t people I want to meet.
I have a lot of work to get on with.
walking, walking, walking.
sitting sitting SITTING.
Backed up. Bloated.
Feudal serf. Under the microscope my hair doesn’t grow.
The focus is elsewhere.
Buy, always buying-
into one system or another.
I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.
If you say sorry you admitted fault.
Let me offer you a letter.
F a hook.
For you you have mistaken in the past, the blood that drips from drinking mouth.
That takes so much of the world, sated and unworrying.
Nothing critical about it.
Walk, walk, step, stop.
Scream, screech, shout, hope.
Direct and hope for a study of things that aren’t lost on anyone.
just true-ness.
“how did you sleep?”
Not well… but I will survive.
Leave me alone, poor, without anything to give.
Alone along alone. Walk walk step step.
Clop-clop. clip clip; my hairs stand up
at attention. Rolling, tumbling jumbling hills of my colour blind self.
A slave to the eyes. Closed and tired. Pucked and ridden.
No tropics, no coconut smart enough to perceive.
It was all a sound. The sound of F-
my my, deathlosophy.

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