Actual daily threadbare psychic pain.
Rooted in my brain.
Clinging from the other side.
The other side of what, I cannot know.
Perhaps the what itself
Is the blight, the distractor.
Though also a token source
Of daily pleasure,
Or at least of sensation.
The raw sort hurts so lovely
So long as it's gentle.
The smallest size on the grater,
The surface scratch.
I rub my eyes bare.
No comments:
Post a Comment