This could all be nonsense-
for all you know.
cosmic, ethereal
bullshit, spinning
on my machine like
a thread, stitched
to my tongue like
on a cloth.
This could all be just
pretty words (arguably so)
and I could be hollow
without them
like an empty cardboard
box after you take out
a valuable, nothing more.
This could all be nothing-
just dizzying spells cast
on you for more than 30
seconds making you
believe what you read is
new and important.
This could all be just me
recycling words from
the mouth of someone
else and modelling them
into what I want, to
what you want.
Or this could be what it is.
This could be my soul
leaking onto paper because
it’s hard to explain.
Because these words come
knocking on my door,
like they are the very beat
in my heart.
We could dance to them,
If you’d get on the floor.
Sway with the glory
Foxtrot with the gore.


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