Take.Me.Anywhere

The thing is, poetry is about dead feelings. We try to live them out through words. We read it again and again hoping it comes alive, again. About us I have nothing left to say, I thought we meant something,  I pictured us somewhere, somehow in the future. I saw us giving hands, kissing our lips, soflty. Now I see no more us. It was it, the look on your face, your discharge, your emptiness, but my emptiness was there too.  We can't be halves of an unmatching puzzle. Riddle me with your insecurity and feed me with your ravenish. Strike me once again, I said it was over but, come,  let's try and suffer, but love me in between.

I count myself on the equation.  No reason for it actually.  Once it hits me I convince myself that does not exist. Life I mean. A person walking along on the street. That person is alone, sometimes lonely,  sounds reaching side to side. It's far from reality, what's reality for all that means? Dynasty of mental issues, love turns into impossibility. What to love when the brain is damaged? Bruises that cannot be seen, only me. Looking fine on the outside, burnt inside. Imagine you. Forget me. See you seeing me. What do you see? Judgement of what you don't know. Incomprehension, stigma, turn again to you, now it's my turn. What do I see?