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i try writing poetry, 
but the words seem lost in a haze 
of blurred lights and muted 
pandemonium
and when i find the words, 
i need to pull them out of the shells
they have worn to prevent external 
contact 
they stare at me with disgust,
you see, my words realise what i have been 
up to, 
they know i could have seen things 
my brain comes on blank 
when I try to think of-
for you need the metre to find the words 
that fit, 
and you need to fit in the goddamned jigsaw 
you have built, breaking apart at the cracks- piece by piece, 
but then, one day the lady 
with the hazardous knitting lets out 
a gasp
and you realise the sounds in your head
aren’t yours anymore 
you are theirs


and they understand how you have lost
the pieces to your own puzzle
(you irresponsible kid, 
listen to your mother)
so they decide to leave out hints,
a breadcrumb trail which ends 
at the gingerbread’s place 
to realise how fantasy 
is so much better than reality 
only in your head


and in your head,
you see a painter staring 
at the blank space 
in his flesh 
trying to choose between the green 
and the blue 
that he could use 
to fill 


what he threw,


there are so many different colours
and i am tired of sticking to the blacks, 
playing safe, 


I’ll find the red to my pink 
even if it doesn’t fit 


anything, 
to feel a little alive, 
eh? 

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