Eight of Swords

My arms move freely yet still are bound

swaying; legs dancing duct tape tied ’round

ankles and feet, getting chaffed with the heat

of the fiction of the friction

…or is it the the friction of the fiction?

Are they coming for me

to stand against or stand

I can never tell, because of faces

at least two on each head in this land

Blending in yet standing out

The ring sparkles when the sun hits the snout.

….and I smell shit.

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2 comments

  1. yeah…I am officially on one…hit me yesterday, came outta fuckin nowhere…or maybe somewhere but I’m so low I don’t care….I hate not being suicidal but really wanting to die.

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