DeTrItUs

Detritus

I was thinking of a vague landscape for a moment crawling on my end
crying driftwoods underneath, masking death: a morbid strike.
My heart is as dark as when time closes it's windows and oceaning
my thoughts with an ink from my past. I don't see no flowers I see
spectres of deception and the lies whenever I sleep on my bed.

It haunts me to the tower, hinterland and layers seeing illusions on
autumn weekend, children laughing at the wasteland of my regrets
which brings light to all the shadows. I'm here trying to empty ocean
with a tablespoon nothing and ageing. I hug insomnia for too long that everytime
I run when there's no escape and I run again and I rea;ize that the world
is a big prison of pop reality and I was controlled while lying to myself
to be happy, and then I unplug myself out of deceit. I'm on different landscape of my alterworld and I can't go back, roads are closed, my inner
self put me here so I can suffer the pain of waking up. I wish I can go back, I wish I can still laugh at things and do something for nothing but it's too late now. I'm on a warpath for truth and be a lunatic on the insane world which we are operated by alarms and beeps. I wish I'm normal but that means I have to go back to sleep again and be a puppet while the ventriloquist kills me slowly. Not anymore.