In two dark crevices in a human skull
my soul’s sight is cradled.
Visions of delusions
do not disease nor blind
but sharpen and deepen my stare.
Like white moths in the night
hurling their delicate winged forms
against an invisible pane of glass,
I am damned to pain my body through
the matter that distracts.
And I coerce my eyes
to penetrate the perennial falsities
that spring before my eyes like weeds
that decieve in spring and shrivel in summer.
Are they dellusions?
So beautiful. . .
What feels better than blood dripping down your arms? Not much. I so miss the razor – your poem is lulling me back, the cradle. . .
What makes you so sure of their falsitiy?
Yes, they are delusions.
Please don’t cut yourself.
I am sure of their falsity because the reality around me mocks me. Nothing feels or looks genuine–I can see people’s lies spill from thier eyes.
don’t worry – i won’t. Only did it once, a while back, but at the time, wow, it felt good.