I hate this place and God
Myself
And
all the artefacts of rage
Suppressed
and rearranged
To
look like smiles
Genuinely
forced across my face
And
thrust into the world
Of
eyes and lips
With
their endless perceptive
Thirst
for fiction.
Pleasure
was evicted
With
a promise
And
regret.
Self-containment
Reawakens
every shard
Of
broken spirit
Every
scar and
Every
mask I built to
Hide
them.
And
for what?
This
mobility is static
Stuck
in one direction:
Down.
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