By: Mitch Green

I wasn’t the focus, the focal diction –
Fiction dead on ambition.
Wishing, superstition – salivating,
Procreating the filth from my heart.
Fresh starts are only mental manipulation,
Lonely relations held in handless arms.
Stoic seasons pass fast – just as good intentions harm.

Reset the bone,
We’re all gone.
Absent minded, founded in comatose prose.
Edited out,
Set in methodical pride.
Fraud ourselves into believing it was worth breathing.

On my lips
I’ll feel you here – immune.
Self-loathing, foreboding, all in sense of doom.
Rooms are all booked – in a place for hysteria to set foot.
Freakish one – I cannot be the sun to light your way.
I’d rather stay and play with all your uneven pieces.
Whether you’d have me here or not,
I’ll open you up to all miracles.

Forge my prosodic tongue,
Till my unheard voice belongs.
Let’s wrong the right, fight the blight – ignite the fucking heresy.
Sincerity never managed to make amends.
Sins solute my bitter direction,
This’ll be the misconception of judgmental perception; unseen deception.
Receptive – until I see those eyes, bat my end.

Fin.