Simulacrum bonsai spirit shining bright,
tendril bushings famously tiny
sit so perfectly tight.
Clipped to stand proudly small,
deficiency rests on laurels deep inside
where no one fears the height
but is aware of the fall.
Watered down trivia the company kept,
guessing games fuel creativity
while vices rumble and trouble
until tranquility arrives, envelops and sets.
Your ghost is born on silent words,
freedom found out where they fly
unbound from earth by roots,
out in the open air
where birds sing and lost men die.
Fickle sentiments with rusted diamond edges,
he said she said metronome bullshit breaking waves,
dividing in measured wedges.
Diatribes and verbal lacerations,
hurt soaked souls harmonizing in
beatdown rhythms instead of conversations.
You don’t know the depths to which I’ve gone,
the lengths of patience for love
you feel mislead like this was a siren song.
The end is racing towards us brutal fast
the thought that hateful statements
might be the last interaction is the worst
a feeling like nails in spine
an unending panic attack.
Bang down the gauntlet
and fuck up the noise.
Realize the petulant cumwads
can’t find what life says are joys.
They’ll ratchet their wisdom
down your throat in a second,
betray all that you find worthy,
if you succomb and say fuck it.
Don’t drink from their frothy lips
filled with ignorant lies.
Tell them to get bent and rot
choke on their prevarications and die.
Stroll on through the incessant chatter
of normalized shit and conversational patter,
you’ll burn in bright hues that are special
though you be considered mad as The Hatter.