PILL, Same Kinda Feeling, Creatives
PILL Touch of blue Vile and thick Penetrates the sanctum Words spoken in a flurry Foaming at the lip Tenderness not withstanding The endless barrage of mattering Of emotionality typically reserved For the wheels of ones own world SAME My temple of inertia Sounds as cavernous as a gong Tempestuously mellow Difficult to ripsote Subtle miasma KINDA Ruffled silk speaks so clearly Caressing knots Appliqued into extravagant vagaries Tragedy can only befall the blunt needle That fumbles its natural inclinations Addressed by stone The warping of fine fabric is its only goal FEELING Hammer strikes cranium Reverberating through anvil The forge lying low and cold Foot stomping the bellows Eager for ignition Desperation grips As I’m thrown empty Skulled onto the floor Creatives Paper mache machinations In my ivory tower Which overlooks the painted pastures Of tinpot voyeurs