A festival of fucked-up ineptitude and it just will not stop with its bare-faced lies

 Any more than a one-year-old child fails to tie their brand new shoes

When the mind just will not align

Swollen soldiers

Deeply depressed tries for another mouthful of tepid water

Never an easy feat

Not ever withstanding anything anymore

Medicine sits on her desk a few further feet away

Radiant as ever in lecherous red

Bed

Head

Thumping entirely

Non-descript just elongated bouts of utter discomfort distanced by problematic disenfranchise

Fallen right away from reckoning again

And tending towards its own masterful downfall

Where is that substantial place of both comfort and warmth within?

She wishes that she could feel it, free it, bring it back to a place

Of dutiful belonging

Movement is eerily, strangely, insistently slow

Struggling with violent silence

Is this the frozen-stiff standstill, standalone, that they’ve all been talking about? Fearful of inviting it back to the size of the party

Her life right about now and definitely disenfranchised

Battling, still

Kneeling on the cold hard surface of somebody’s floor

An attempt for all of nothing really – certainly not her

Soon as the mind will not fashion so far as the thunderbolt door

Where are these beautiful parts, slumbering pieces, that endlessly deny themselves a pretty, little, uncomplicated existence?

Never permitting such a desirable thing as to dress, to pull two freshly washed socks on minus checking for rumination, that they promise to sit still

The hard-working individual who lost her throne to the whole wide universe out there

And none of this makes any kinds of kindly sense but for the fall back into bed behind the iron head

That poison-faced promise that she can gather her bearings far better than this next time

But it won’t, just cannot ever feel the same way as it did before challenges became impossible things with devil horns sworn upon

 

Take 2 –

When the mind just will not realign
 
Swollen soldiers
 
Deeply depressed tries for another mouthful of disinterested water
 
Never an easy act
 
Not ever withstanding anything anymore
 
Medicine sits on writing desk only another level over
 
Radiant as ever in libertine red
Bed
 
Head
 
Perfectly thumping
 
Non-descript just elongated bouts of sheer, utter distanced discomfort, out-sprinted by problematic disenfranchise
 
Fallen right away from reckoning again
 
And tending to its own dextrously masterful downfall
 
Where is that substantial place of warmth, width, contentment and comfort within?
 
Wishes she could feel it, free it, bring it back to a place
 
Of dutiful rapport and delirious inclusion
 
The transition is eerily, strangely, insistently required to be so slow
 
Struggling with violent quietude
 
Is this the frozen-stiff stalemate, the standalone standdown that they’ve all been talking about? Fearful of inviting itself back to the size of the party
 
Her life right about now and definitely disenfranchised
 
Battling, still
 
Kneels on the cold hard surface of somebody’s floor
 
An attempt for all of nothing really – certainly not her
 
Soon as the mind will not fashion so far as the thunderbolt door
 
Where ever are the beautiful parts though, the slumbering pieces that endlessly deny themselves
 
A pretty, little, uncomplicated existence
 
Never permitting such a desirable thing as to dress, to stretch two freshly washed socks on
 
Short of checking for rumination, that they promise to sit still
 
The hard-working, instrumental girl who lost her throne to the whole wide universe out there
 
And none of this makes any kinds of kindly sense but for the fall back into bed behind iron head
 
That poison-faced promise that she can gather a fistful of fair bearings far better the next time
 
But it won’t, just cannot ever feel the same as it did before challenges became impossible things with devil horns daubed and sworn woebegone upon
Take 3 –
When the might of the mind just will not realign
 
Swollen soldiers and whisperings of hallucinatory ghosts
 
Deeply depressed tries for another mouthful of disinterested water
 
Never an easy act
 
Not ever withstanding anything anymore
 
Medicine sits on writing desk only another level over – a place wherein this person can still somehow unbeknownst to themselves manage to amount to something sizeably significant
Literacy speaks soon as its mouthpiece falters to refrain from a single real-world thing
Radiant as ever in libertine red are these sinking, shrinking sacrilege pills which have forever carried a face all on their own, prone and primed to distasteful moments of complete disillusion
And damnright taking full ownership of propriety at that
Bed
 
Head
 
Perfectly thumping
 
Non-descript just over-elongated bouts of sheer distanced discomfort, out-sprinted by mind-lapping bouts of problematic disenfranchise
 
Fallen right away from comfortable reckoning again
 
And tending to its own dextrously masterful downfall
 
Where is that substantial place of warmth, width, contentment and comfort within?
 
Wishes she could feel it, free it, bring it back to a place
 
Of dutiful rapport and delirious inclusion – she has never felt so very alarmingly, utterly discluded in all of her world
 
The transition is eerily, strangely, insistently required to be so slow
 
Struggling with violent bouts of sniggering quietude
 
Is this the frozen-stiff stalemate, the standalone standdown that they’ve all been talking about? Fearful of inviting itself back to the size of the party
 
Her life right about now and definitely disenfranchised
 
Battling, still
 
Kneels on the cold hard surface of somebody’s floor
 
An attempt for all of nothing really – certainly not her
 
Soon as the mind will not fashion so far as the thunderbolt door
 
Where ever are the beautiful parts though, the beaches filled with pebble-washed reimaginings catering for sinking feet, the slumbering pieces that tend to endlessly deny themselves
 
A pretty, little, uncomplicated existence?
 
Never permitting such a desirable thing as to dress, to stretch two freshly washed socks back on
 
Short of checking for incessantly estranged rumination, that these trembling mouth-pieces will simply propose to promise to sit painstakingly still
 
The hard-working, instrumental girl who lost the placing of her absolute-throne to the whole wide universe out there
 
And none of this makes any kinds of kindly sense but for the fall back into bed behind iron head
 
That poison-faced promise that she can still get to gather a fistful of fair bearings far better the next time
 
But it won’t, just cannot ever feel the same as it did before challenges became impossible things with devil horns daubed and sworn woebegone upon