EXTRANEOUSNESS

IT USED TO BE ALRIGHT TO BE A POET

IT USED TO MEAN SOMETHING SOMEHOW

IT EVEN APPEARED TO BE SOME PROFESSION

IT SEEMED TO BE APPRECIATED, BUT NOT NOW

I AM JUST A MIRROR

MOST OF THE PEOPLE

DO NOT LIKE TO LOOK

INTO IT ALL THE TIME

I AM JUST A PILLOW

WHERE ONE LAYS

DOWN A WHILE

FOR AUGHT

RHYME

THE REST OF THE BEING THERE IS NO ONE AROUND

THE REST OF THE GOING THERE IS NO MORE NEED

EVERYTHING SEEMS QUITE INDIFFERENT, GONE

EVERYONE ESCAPES, SIMPLY TIME AT MY FEET

I MAY BOTHER ONES INSTEAD OF INSPIRING

I MAYBE ONLY GATHER THE CLOUDS IN THE AIR

I MAY BE THREATENING THOSE PRIMAL INSTINCTS

I MAY BE LACKING SOME FOR ME UNFAMILIAR CARE

WHO’S TO KNOW WHAT’S THIS ALL ABOUT?

I HAVE AN IDEA, BUT SO WHAT? - SO?

IT’S POSSIBLE THAT I LOST FAITH

ALREADY A LONG TIME AGO

IT’S POSSIBLE THAT OUT THERE

IS NOBODY TO CARE - GIVE A THING

POSSIBLE THAT I’M JUST ACTUALLY MEAN

THOUGH TOO YELLOW OR SELFISH TO BRING

POTENTIALLY, I THINK MYSELF NICE AND FINE

IMAGINE THE SUN SHINING OUT OF THE BUTT

FLATTER ME FOR SUCH SPANKING WISDOM

FANCY MY GRASS THE GREENEST, MY GUT

JUSTIFY ME WITH BEING SUCH HELL

MORE REAL, TRUE OR AUTHENTIC

DISTRACTING ME BRIGHTLY

BY BEING SO ROMANTIC

WHEN I KNOW THERE’S

NO SUCH FEELING THERE

WHEREVER SUCH SO APART

WHEN I KNOW I JUST KEEP

SOFTLY KILLING MY OWN

HAPPINESS, HURTING

MY FOOLISH HEART.

HC_THIESGEN

MAR 18TH, 2018

6:05 PM (GMT+)