in these dusky noired nights the
caverns of my
the subtleties of this aching scarred
besides a bottle to
anything but this choking feeling when i swallow.
its putrid colored bile,
spat onto the corner of a brown grocery bag,
backed up from my acid lined throat.
and it spills into the
tips of these
i once called my sickness.
the reason for this liquid quest of a cure i pursue at all hours.
like an orphaned child who's lips constantly play
with the thought of his mother's name.
but its always been me.
this dark lazarus.
my internal memnock bereft with this lulling hatred.
for no one
that i am.
every gesture i fake
every word i steal
even these dictionary ripped words.
its all a photocopy
I'm a god damned photocopy.