Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Loaf is Stale and So Are You

There is a molecule of something real that you must have steamed from. 
I can see it every so often in the way you get caught in the sunshine. 
However, you don't show it much, and I don't think you have any control now. 
I bet you once were a real nice person, or something that resembled something pure. 
You get caught up on all the sugar now though, and you're as empty as a door with no home. 
You welcome in just about everything and quickly adapt to who they are.
You encounter things and like those lizards who don't know any better change.
This change can be caught on a reel, slowly motion adaptation. 
This has nothing to do with kindness, defense, or even the weather. 
I see the change take a turn in your face, like a sudden moment of realization. 
Your body switching gears showing feelings you've mastered off the television. 
I catch the plastic in your tone of voice, the way it cracks in a high pitch laughter. 
I can see the chunks of recycled thoughts melt and morph into something you desire. 
I think you've lost all control now, but you must have once been a real life person. 
You don't have a thought in your head that wasn't made with a potion. 
The ingredients suddenly connecting all the dots; 
A dose of passion from the poet boy in the library with his hair ruffled, his eyes absorbing written love. 
A sliver of elegance from the older women who smoothly got off the bus. 
Your eyes not of your own mind, explain things seen through others vision. 
The tales that spew from your tongue appear like jam on toast, perfection and true. 
However the loaf is stale and so are you. 
You have no truths and no lies because you are an empty body - empty like the sky. 
And as empty as the sky maybe, they know their clouds and they are at peace. 
Your demons wrestle within the depths of you and you pretend like everything else.. 
They aren't yours, bits and pieces of things people have said, maybe some of them 
 do expand from the grain of realness that rest somewhere inside your walking casket. 
Stale like bread, appearing wholesome. 
You are nothing but a tall glass of sour milk.

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