These branches of thought
bare poisonous fruit.
This branch of analysis
has no truthful root.
Version of events,
Played through with tainted hue.
The other colours all bled out.
Flameless smoke rises up my flue.
Sending my brain signals,
That get read badly.
I autopilot through the day,
madly and sadly
When the atmosphere of this place,
Is fresh and crisp and clean,
I’m wearing a hazmat suit.
Falsely protecting from a world I deem mean.
I’m trapping myself inside,
Sealing myself in this costume.
This depressing skin is air tight,
allowing this disease to consume
These fleshy, blood filled parts
of who I want to be.
Leaving behind a skeleton,
a bare and empty me
Lowest common denominator,
I’ve been atomised.
But, I can pull myself back together,
you’d be surprised
How long will it last?
That’s another question.
It depends on how quick I can put on the suit,
of emotional compression.