Frequent guilt trip traveller, forever forlorn and posted on a corner of a storm.
Mouth like a blow horn and posture hangs him slumped.
Posture is bad from the way head has been pulled down by gravity.
Posture looks like devolution.
Postcards to the past serve as a highlight to regrets that even keep the daylight dark.
Walking away from the light like a wayward spark.
Heretic of pop culture, harbouring pain inside like a hot ulcer.
Hands vibrating violently from the internal perpetual diatribes singing themselves out
They are eating their way out.
Someone sing them to sleep.
Will someone come and offer lullabies for the diatribes?
I want to live to death, I want to live till there’s no existence left.
Will you play your voice box till our coffins close?
Your head looks naked with out it’s halo.
You looked like an ‘i’, now you look like a half done ‘L’.
Hand me down skin hangs loosely on the bones.
This is the world and you were introduced to all its tones
This is all you have ever known
and we are liars,
Vehement deniers of our own desires