Poetry/

Prone to tragedy

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SOCIAL :

This is a thing of a mind,
nothing of this is real, everything is fine.

It is that unsavory average bowl of disgust,
the telling first sign that the Sun is out of shine,
that something is not quite okay,
that stingy mood which swaying you away.
You are about to let go of the dreams you once had
and seek the big entitlements instead,
you say how
the life is a battle enough behind the closed doors,
I was never in question, I never stood in doubt.
How fair!

Blown away by the creativity of the dead
you maybe star a doom of us both,
one day somebody foreign will accessorize it
because even the shit gold platted attracts the crows.
Once you put your faith in the another
you will lose yourself to trivial contentment,
while you’re happy this will work, while not - you know,
everyone will work to push your guts into a bitter knot.
How nice!

If your mood was the weather to report,
it would be a winter cyclone on Triton,
Reluctantly explained you sprain your face unnatural way,
that plastic grimace of your smile drives the dogs away.
Hurting yourself makes space for other ugly things,
talking to innocence lost is one of those sins.
And that all for the games…?
Holding a child…?
Is that where from it came?
Is that how much you hate yourself, just imagine
how much hate outside has staked that sheep powered engine.
How humane!

This is a thing of a mind,
nothing of this is real, everything is fine.
Even with a skull stuck on the stick,
you think about all as it is a flick…

Why make a difference to variation of penance,
let’s bundle up all and have it nicely welded together.
A bucket of kerosene and a stick of dynamite,
and voila! - life is a masterpiece again.
I doubt anyone knows your taste, all those
little nasty things that make you whole and happy again,
but you are making the worst possible mistake,
spiraling out of the control, you are so prone to tragedy.
Aw -Ewwww, how rude of an idiot like me!

𝒶𝓈𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶