There’s this crazy lady
or maybe she’s perfectly sane
she likes to yell at invisible things
people she must know from somewhere
can’t tell if they’re really there
but blind men don’t know believing is seeing
her face it is littered with canyons
some thin like the line between
love and hate waking and dreaming
and it is with this that time it seems
has done it’s best to embarrass her
but it is life which knows that the lines are just a statement
a painting
the only one that’ll ever get close is memory unforgiving
Her worn t-shirt only obscures
but will never hide her emaciated visage
the mind had overcome matter
and ignored its wants and needs
leaving behind withering beams
with nothing to keep it from disintegration
save for a sun abused tarp
held together underneath
by intertwining visible stitches
like a car running with nowhere to go
and with no substance just a frame to call its own
Tormented by antagonistic gusts of wind
each with their own fault
she can’t seem to pick herself up
off the sidewalk without being interrupted
shes trying to stand now
and I don’t know how much more I can take of this
before I leave the theater and demand a refund
worse part is everyone else seems so put off
afraid
look out she might have a flea
she seems crazy just yelling at thin air
she seems angry better take the long way round
they better thank God that he doesn’t strike them dead
the second their big toe hidden inside that shiny vein constricting shoe of theirs
touches the first step of their Sunday fortress of solitude
-Tyler Worthington
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