when floors become home. stuck. in the mind.

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    when floors become home. stuck. in the mind.

    black veil,
    slow as snails,
    squint your eyes,
    no more highs.
    miss suzie had a tugboat,
    her tugboat had a bell.
    miss suzie took a wrong turn
    and now she's stuck in hell.
    nothing is connecting.
    nothing.
    i can't connect with you.
    i can't connect with her.
    i can't connect with them.
    i can't connect with me.
    i can't.
    if this whirlpool ever stops,
    i hope i land on my feet.
    said a word,
    can't remember.
    last five seconds,
    never existed.
    my brain is cutting things out.
    im doing things.
    saying things.
    and i don't remember them.
    my words are still hovering in the air,
    and i can't even remember them.
    im standing in doorways,
    and i don't remember how i got there.
    burnt hill,
    designed to kill,
    got lost
    in a dream.
    im getting lost in my head again.
    im getting stuck in here.
    last time this happened...
    i was in middle school.
    my imagination can't control itself.
    id rather be there then here.
    there i know things,
    i remember things.
    here...im a mess.
    im a mess.
    im a mess.
    i found myself face down,
    on the floor.
    it was quiet there.
    i was alone there.
    it felt normal to be laying face down,
    in the middle of class.
    i didn't want to get up.
    it was warm there.
    it was friendly there.
    i was the floor.
    i was the floor.
    i wish i was a fish.
    no.
    wars,
    cars,
    stars,
    mars.
    something is not connecting.
    my brain is doing what it did 16 years ago.
    its making me forget.
    its making me forget
    things i shouldn't be forgetting.
    silly things.
    things that aren't worth forgetting.
    silly.
    billy.
    it's stronger than me.
    say goodbye.
    im going back.

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    The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both.

    Ralph Waldo Emerson, American Poet (1803-1882)

    HoudinisDancer’s Poems (13)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    when floors become home. stuck. in the mind. 0
    tiny man syndrome. 0
    deal the cards, hit or no? 0
    paper-made mache. dance, dance, dance. 0
    lion, how you calmed me. 1
    the soul on your mantel. 3
    the pretty weight of dirt. 1
    bloody lips 2
    a bedtime story 2
    self-inflicti
    on
    2
    bathing in kerosene. 1
    The Difference Between Fire and a Flame 2
    Porcelain Doll 3