I've sketched parallels
all in a pretty row,
lined-up and factual, how nice.
All the same variations of an obscure past mistake.
of every moment I take,
I store them up inside of me.
They eat away my mindset.
I love them like they'd set me free.
I love them like some other me,
parelleled but different.
Because every day is like the rest
the same sunshine, it's angel-blessed.
From heaven sent to watch over us,
mocking the indisposed.
I want to inform the system,
with this information undisclosed,
that the whole damn thing is worthless.
And you thought your system flawless.
It's nothing but a stain,
placed like some afterthought of a child
on the hem of God's bathrobe.
A holy infant, so tender and mild.
It's every time you force that smile.
Somehow you still get up each day
because you need something to fill in
that time before they sun gives way.
It's a pitied colouring book,
with the lines all drawn crooked.
You sketch in it with reds and blues
as if you could remove
the disdainful sight of the blank white
garishly stark paper.
It dares your hope to taper out.
Everything I've done has been a waste
that feeds into the machine.
It's time that I get weened.
I can't stand this broken record.
But I need something to sketch my days with,
lest they should become known
to the system as wasted.
So instead I'll embed
a thousand freedoms I've tasted
into one more silly line,
that will lose itself in time. |
Submission Name: Parallels and Poetry
