It's this room; where
the furniture of comfort
has been rearranged.
The shelf of delusions,
warped by the crushing
weight of reality.
This ache, it's universal.
Manifesting destruction,
collapsing stars, every
atom torn from the inside.
The polarity between thought
and feeling—incalculable...
My pen bleeds on this
page, an attempt to
contain my dormant rage.
The toothless jaws of
hope—masticate with
pernicious force.
Devoured by a thought
of you mishandling my
heart, you know it's made
of glass.
Desire transgresses
intuition, an odorless
sense.
I think, that when I think
about what I think, it only
makes me think...
-
Author:
– NoeticNonsense (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 8th, 2026 23:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
Offline)
Comments1
Obsessive thought becomes thinking about thinking and before one knows it one looses the ends in the tangle. Nicely written
Thank you for taking the time to read my piece and I truly appreciate your feedback!!!
You are most welcome
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