Cracks in and on the concrete
making it seem less and less complete.
I’m a backseat driver
in my own car
I forgot to throw away two and a half weeks ago
yet an ornate, difficult magnet to misfortune
The latter times reek of crimes
from that torn wrapper
Lucid, unintelligible,
and unmentionable to anyone
Keyboard with all the keys switched
I still function but all is just
Guesswork and inferred motions
I’m a –
of a higher status.
I’m a –
and the notions made tend to not make sense
But with the questions come answers from others
and I can stop mindlessly hoping i’m speaking in right mind.
Whatsoever.