“I Don’t Even Know You”

Spinning through once inspired ways
transforming breaths reach tired eyes
in tantalizing waves
realizing in a moment
everything had changed
the world moved on
but you’re still the same
even the flecks in your eyes form
a mystery welling never existing the same
taming my reality from the formerly insane
our warped hearts fail to contain
emotions bared to the frequencies shamed
nothing short of cereberally tame

Smoke fills the air of strange rooms
and you’ve taken a turn for the worse
a mild haze that lack of sleep slows to burn
blindly incinerating each freshly fixed nerve
with all distractions set aside
our passion comes back to life
in chapters forgotten,
torn out or tossed away
no use in them but writer’s block
or a fleeting moment of feigning grace
still writing free poems and left underpaid
I’m listless and you’re delayed
ramblings of pure nothingness
we’re rebuking the Ancient’s quests
And I’ve failed the test
“Still thinks she’s the best”

Consciously I’m consequently obsessed;
within serenity sanctioned in a satirical mess
as we write to reflect
redemption rhetorically received
though counteractive as a team
‘all together’ yet with little tact it seems
a solemn mind enslaved is called to visualize
the rhythms we once lacked
now set to design and retract
retracing thickened lines of black
you always seemed to have my back
It’s a sightless confession
barely bruised by your deception
compromised by our mere acceptance
in remission, over repentance, unoriginal
in case you thought it was intentional
here’s the cosmic beat they love
Intergalactic and sensual
“at least this poetic shit has some potential”
between exes’s born so existential
primitive yet somehow livable
still left somewhat unconventional
last to abide by this holographic visual;
ritualistic and risidual

Subdued by frequencies realigned
leaving the youth hypnotized
and carrying books of sacred lies
a benefit to the Seers sightless eyes
who lent the levels they’ve comprised
escapism revels in the inner layers we’ve denied
no more or less victim to a softened truce
the writers muse, “We’ll try again”
with a shying dedication
shifting through such hollow trends
Deprogramming commence
get the activists off the fence
we’re weary of their unusual hints
left scattered with deepening severance
battling true wit however
decidedly unspent

Initiated through trials
the gods had sent
with growing purpose
past realms are reliving to repent
“Get straight or you don’t give a shit”
she thinks we’re all living in
tent city or the crystal ships
we’re all about the twelve steps
with love long lost in the grips
of another ballad propagating
our next detrimental fix,
“At least you know”
It’s getting sick

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