| comatose corner |
| the tips of overworked, abused, filthy fingers bleed; smearing black ink across the page dilluted by teardrops raining down. crimson, blotchy fingerpaint raping college-ruled mediocrity weeping words who finally, upon clawing a path thru uncharted gray matter have made their escape to the page and i dont really feel this way this ink, this blood, these teardrops mean nothing to onlooking men - innocents, simaritans, rubber-necking jabbing their holier-than thou noses into my business as i lie crumpled here dying in my soul as a martyr to - what, exactly? |