Comatose

I stand in a cliff
Where my imagination ends
I see the world in fragments
Through dragonfly eyes

My imagery has ended
All its sources corroded

Your pain is incomprehensible
So is mine

Words are not my friends any more
Just like everyone else

Every time I need you
I need to be controversial, scandalous or suicidal
I cannot.

It seems I have anesthetized
Portions of my brain
I cannot give discourses on intellectual things any more
My magic with words has given way and fallen apart

I speak like an android now.

Superficiality is my specialty.

I don’t know numbers

I can’t make music

I have forgotten my inspiration

I have succumbed to reality

And I’m not even as intensely upset about it, as I used to be.

This is what happens when you trade your soul with loveless people.

My love now lurks in pigeon murmurs
My poetry is comatose.

Indifference did this to me. I know the indifference-mongers can rejoice for their methods have worked.

Take a pin. Catch a butterfly. Rainbow-colored and happy. Pin it to a board. Watch it struggle; watch with unmoving irises. One more to your collection. Dear reality, you can celebrate!

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