written by: Michael Shea
Wow, the day you wake up to the fact,
the fact that you’re an act.
A conglomeration of witty cynicisms wired to react to negativity,
to flow high or low; too slow? I digress back.
Awakened to the tick-tock of regressed awareness ness,
necessarily yearning to be the joy of the watchmaker.
Wound extra tight please, with extra cheese I digress.
The defence mechanisms I deploy default back,
the obfuscation endured my train of thought derailed,
intentionally and maliciously, gleefully I’ve lost track.
Epiphanies that glow so bloody bright, burn like fire in an end time pyre,
and yet drift to murky vision memories just out of sight.
This roast is served for one, the outer surface nice and crispy.
There is more on this I fear yet the track I’m on has skipped it, I digress.
Fibonacci predictabilities keep me penned in like PC police, feared reprisals end in fear.
Maybe I not you, enjoy the default settings resplendent with squid ink from the rear.
Let’s get back to what we were talking about shall we and enough with this code of conduct lest they tire.
I’m not high or cool about this self-directed coup having kept you out of it, you meaning me.
The trap is spiral too as well as the only way out.
The plugged-up loophole of narcissistic fantasies, and I lie in path of taking queue realities; badgering attention.
Realisations about the self are fraught with Indiana proportioned gaps set to ford across,
you realise helplessness as the light in this here tunnel is a fact, you’re on track, out plenty I digress.
And 3-2-1 A sleepless, ness.