mask for the masses.

don’t tell me that you miss me.
when you sit by the fire with your feet.
i can see your face in the brass.
i can see your eyes are molten.
but don’t melt my mountains.
they are not ready to be taken.

you force down my eyelids.
with your fleshy fingertips.
rabbits with razors.
is there something you don’t want me to know?
is there something i ought to see?
your mother is after you with golden chains.

everything is not going to be just fine.
the waste here and the waste is everywhere.
sure i have enough but of the few that don’t
they won’t listen to your lies flapping over here.
your lies trapping them way over there.
i am refusing to be always wrong.

i won’t forget what is important.
i promise i will remember what is important
pretty; they got you pretty early on.
in a pretty vicious place.
but your best was not good enough.
but nobodies best ever is.

if you were alive you would be a cinnamon tree.

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2 Responses

  1. I want to be…
    a cinnamon tree!!

    :)

    yaz:)

  2. Why a cinnamon tree?
    I shall now ponder.

    Well done, Nags

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