I think my veins are trying to speak.
I think they want to communicate.
With me, I'm not sure.
The only way to find out is to trace them.
Do I use a knife or a pencil?
Do I use the knife like a pencil
and the pencil like a knife?
Which would be worse?
My veins, they shriek.
They form lines and berate.
Berate me for my life.
For the lack of anything good and pure.
Peel open my flesh and remove the hem.
My body is their stencil.
It pales in comparison to their prehensile.
They tell me to find a better way of life.
That nothing else could be quite so worse.
Well, I won’t listen.
There is no free will
when you are trapped in a societal hearse.
The only thing worse than conformity
is a woman’s purse.
My veins, they now disperse.
Comments
Post a Comment