digital cemetery

[e_liberation]

The war begins with (my) deja vous
circling in and out of the insolent and pompous gimmick nicknamed love

it's contradictions amuse me even while I'm licking my wounds

we, with our strategies like stubborn still births,
reluctant to abort
content to float aimlessly

because death only exists on the outside

the complicated blueprints of soul like portraits of failure
wasted energy and the heaviest silences rooted inside like phantom runway models half naked but swallowed up with ego
their bodies screaming out for nourishment and bullet proof backbone

Every word is weighty
with each and every finale discouraging my libido,
wrapping them up to suffocate luxuriously in the comforts of my mind's anarchy

the revolution?
it can only exist in the bodies of the delusional
on the faces and in the hearts of the undeniably foolish

Believers.

So c'mon, Mister.
Dress yourself up.

Dress up and tear me down.

Mister. dresses up just to break me down

Yours was a touch far too clinical
a heart roughed up as they worshiped the cradle
while lacking the forethought of your future with recklessness


we could meet at the base armed with everything unsaid

holding steady inside the gun.