Tuesday, July 4, 2017


(Written 4 July 2017, at 2:45 am.)

I don't know how to start.
I don't know how to start
Because words and I have been apart
For longer than I care to admit.

And the truth is the pain

It cuts and fades
And serenades
The lost feelings and buried thoughts,
Admitting which would be welcome not.

The violence in my head
Is neverending, and I've lost track
Of the two sides of the war.
I see them emerge blurrily sometimes,
Weights of grey,
Only to recede into the fray,
With what I could swear was a knowing, impish grin of a master prankster.

I am being played.

But you don't know.
And how would you?
Unless you're in on it, too.