deepundergroundpoetry.com
Midnight Nightmare
we're born into
fiction
with no
book of lies
and truth says
its sorry
the myth's in your eyes
will you still love-
when the poetry
dies?
sold as fast-food
containers
(eat while you cry!)
electric finger-tips
once
lit-up-a-room
-feeling
hard-rocks
heavy-knocks
long-blonde-locks
now
a catastrophic mess
of nothing
to play
and fiction
is fiction
but needs to have walked
an uneasy path
to come
to a page
never a muse
or really short fuse
it was pumping in veins
of blood
spilled
through
every-day
use
.
was it an act of God(s)
I don't know-
it's hard to say!
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