Blood Omen
A tonic of blood, and soul,
mixed with impurities of reality.
A conjuring fantasy consuming
while creating. A tonic for forgetting
systematically all aspects held within
objects, life renders unfairly
and illogically.
Pens piercing my tongue for fun.
I punctured my septum for awakening,
pleasure for the sake of pain’s pointed
denigration.
Drank the tonic I’ve concocted,
remedied my habit for normalcy,
in all it’s reliance on definitive
reproach. A racy, touchy, subject
screams from the recesses of an over
used obsessive conscience continually berating,
chastising. I am now an epicene orator
confined to paper, after indulging in the
tastes of the tonic I’m concocting.
Could I?
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