My lace is the color of you, contaminate—a syringe to toast with
Just a drop of reality can be too much. A spoon full of sugar they say, but it’s just poison on the tongue and in the brain. New cuts and bruises may keep you sane. But you are just a broken crutch.
I spiked Thee’s Glass Cup, bled dry by times of wait. I linger and sit, the pain you cause. A scar on top of all this throw up.
I talk and talk, spoken out loud, your words unseen, bones filled with Cloud. I reiterate, forced and pled, a dog on a leash, a thought in your head. Wanting more, Thee has cowed me down, my breath off to war. Broken, now, a cavern lost of all its ore.