Aim For The Ground

i dont think anyones gonna read this cuz its one

of my longer poems lmao

I can see myself through their eyes.

Deformed and Desperate

Close them, please shut them tight

Till i can go and tune my tongue to whistle the automated tune.

Till then don’t look.

Adaptation is embarrasing for whats meant to be stiched in.

I dont accept the offer of help its a far to wretched of a scene to behold. The tears haven't fully dried.

The interior of my soul is adorned with flesh and the sprinkles of gold that had been allowed in

remain now decomposing mold.

Wet with life

not fully lived not fully acknowleged.

A rock in a pile of golden letters.

Longing to be opened.

Excited to be picked up and adleast skimmed through and maybe even understood and once that occurs they'll.

But who reads rocks.

Interupting their search the waste is pushed by to find what’s behind me.

Behind me in sight that is and is and always is.

Bleak and narrowly thought through, mistaking my role for comfortability is a railing my legs keep slipping through.

A Railing visibly made of glue but made to be intercepted by golden bountiful letters.

The dull throb of a malnorished heart pushes me forward.

The sky looks blue with glee.

Looking.

yearning.

begging

Loathing

for those whoes tongues twisting in odd motions receiving smiles and sweet gestures instead of.

Of exasperation and glances towards the clock and shaking their head in disbelief of how time has been holding its breath in my presence.

Remaining on the edge between humour and friendship is the line I lay on.

I hope it strangles my tounge and allows my speech to dissolve.

So then I can push and shove and throw the realm of confusion out of 

my life in its abyssmal and fruitless  yet presicely rich in impact nature.

The hope sewed with string of deciet.

is an active aspect of what i hope I will defeat.

through the disappoint that radiates towards me in heaps.

A constant repetition doesn't change the outcome or how it begins

and its always begun

by the eager acceptance of

maybe.

The ground was slippery and I slipped off.

I will fall next time gracefully purposely and nothing in between.

Don't dust me off and clean my shirt from the dust that befalls me in order to re orgnasise the hells of life to add your little rendition with a knife spoken tounge.

The fall and the splat and the heart ache will be the final choice I and my self and not the shovels of dirt and grime you've left inside me.

I'll go  back to the edge of the balcony.

And I'll look at the stars that you and everyone but me is because rocks are nowhere but on earth.