Thursday, November 17, 2016

what are we if not habitual?

I can't help but to pull loose threads,
tugging away until
it all falls apart,
stripping to expose what's underneath,
the truth with nothing left to hide behind

I catch myself apologizing over feelings,
spitting them back into bottles
until they're long past expiration
where they become stale, flat and leave
a bitter taste

these thoughts will turn to madness
as paranoia grows like tumors in my brain,
pressure points exploding spilling blood
through eye sockets until all I see is red

Do we choose who we are or
has science determined that for us too?

Each time I see a path split into two-three-four
there is a compulsion to take the usual route,
I struggle but am still pulled breaking nails on ground
anything to resist going down same muddy roads,
same tired destinations

it feels good to let go, drift to your own will,
to jump in puddles and roll in the mud,
but it's messy, and no one wants you
tracking that shit in their home,
I tell myself that
next time I'll take the cleaner option

They say hindsight is twenty-twenty
but when was the last time they had an eye exam?
parts of the story is missed from fogged lenses,
the rest is haphazardly pieced together
creating whatever lullaby that helps them sleep tonight

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