not uncommon
I just can’t help
but to feed myself
with spitefully drawn
wretched and
so very wrong
scattered along
What ifs
head trips
surrounding those
certain faces
that go, naturally,
along with the feet
that have stepped on me.
I think of the tables
all turned
as they burn
the walls down
to the ground
And it’s good.
They call it karma
among the human race
they say that it is
they call it suitable
they say it’s irrefutable,
a wooden nickle,
a bloody trickle,
down from both
of my knees;
your words are said,
from an empty head,
so guess what?
I’m not listening.
I can’t seem
to force the reflex,
my inner apex,
is still feeding,
ever greedily;
ever steadily;
There can only be
one possibility,
only one ending,
to button up this scene,
it’s either gonna be you,
or it’s gonna be me,
pick your poison,
and swallow down quietly.

2 thoughts on “Commonplace.

  1. idioms says:

    I to read this poem, wonderful collections, great blog, keep it up.

    Emily, UK


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