this innocuous pebble breaks me breaks you, breaks us, apart
tearing rolling down the barrel of a shotgun heart
I may not know true heartache now but in the past that thing broke me
pieces of an imperfect mosaic flew
these shards of myself not smokable but certainly shattered and vein-like-blue
fatigue of life overtakes
all the same shade of off-white
low stimuli but intensity building, built
like a road of rubber tyres on fire
a gigantic witch’s pyre
though 21st century
how I wish the mania hadn’t left me
and this constant need to sleep
because of the medication and gorged carbs
plus lowest stimulation among irritating boy-like antagonism
so that we become nothing much more than slugs of tired redemption
or those on a happy carefree holiday
I came in far worse than I currently have become now – a moth pathetically flapping now – luxurious slug style seemingly assumed now somehow.
© 2022 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Pixabay image credit
This post first appeared on Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose.