Uninspired Writer

flow

lacrimosa
tears that feed into your pillowcase
and that drip into your morning mug of milk
the ones that pour into your toilet bowl that you, did not just throw up in
cries that are masked by the shower head, the silver shower head that waters you clean
lacrimosa
a sock and a buskin, to laugh and to sigh through a life of comedy and tragedy
to practice filial piety and to receive angst
oh, may i please just hide under my blanket
with headphones playing music that satisfy my distress
but empty out my heart

wind brushing my hair, wheels turning
oh, how happiness dangles in front of me, and reels me in like a fish
only to throw me out for i haven't grown enough, because i'm not enough, yet?
will i ever be more than the smallest fish in the biggest pond
lacri-fucking-mosa
hidden in my bedroom and sinking into my carpet
my mattress
my clothes on the pink chair
the ones that make me afraid to read, afraid the ink might run
like me, running today

lacrimosa
the kind of dance that you learn when you're still a kid
still learning what the world has to offer
what hides in the closet and climbs the trees
what peeks inside the books you read and races between the lines
the kind that gently holds your hand and pinches your cheeks
the song you sing without knowing the words
the notes that you play when you're not given sheet music
my alarm clock is a little too bright for me
nothing like the stars i used to have stuck to the ceiling

lacrimosa
the dysphoria that doesn't stab at you but whispers in your ears, accursed words you never needed that lurked about in the dark
dispelled only by itself