Lower than tone.
Your incessant screams on repeat
No higher than the seat
you were convinced is your throne.
Down deeper than bones
archeology can't dig up.
Promise that when I sit up,
you won't force me to get up
as I am not guaranteed
to be solid when I land.
The pilot has plans premeditated
but the free falling
can only hope to be sedated
before smacking the pavement.
Low like the thoughts
that accompany depression.
Lasting impression.
If left to your discretion,
this session would be brief.
The conventional discomfort
that mixes well with grief
and a hint of disbelief
has shaped your view of me.
Don't latch on to everything you see.
Down like knees over the glass
and the shrapnel
with hands tightly clasped
and pain ravaged eyes to the sky
begging for something whole
deserving less than half full.
Emotion the handful
that escapes when you squeeze.
Slow leak on snow peaks
dripping down into the valley.
Lower than trash in the dark alley.
Had today's dinner in my savvy
state of manufactured grace
but a lid across the face
and a knee to the gut later
and I'm no more fit
than I was when I begged for favors.
Surviving in the distance
by staying that far away
from the surface.
My purpose set
to be ignored and stepped over.
Who is lower than me?
Maybe she is.
Flung to the wall
or deep into the bed
head down
drowning sound
despite deliberate defiance
until somber silence.
A sullen science
one must be at their lowest
to voluntarily lust after.
Who is lower than she?
Maybe he is.
Pressed to the hood
observed in a hood
objectified and hunted in the hood
perceived as commonplace for no good.
Headbutt against wood and metal.
Testified that he was known to mettle
with the bright lights,
sirens
and shiny medals
sworn to protect.
No word of the neglect
to duty in dubious derelict
until incited and blown over
by people forced to love living lower.
How low can one be...
Lower than the stool
one stood over
tipped over
kicked over
by the tips of toes that longed to float
pulled too far down not to choke
provoked and
tired and
hopeless.
No guess unless defined
by the much more deranged
as simply a disturbed mind
that lacked social interaction.
Brisk, surprised reaction
without sufficient dedication to memory.
Who are we?
Depth can't recall.
We were taught from the crawl
to finish on our feet
but when forced to our seat,
we are closer to hands and knees
than we would be
had there been incentive
to remain standing
without the painful landing.
Low like the dust.
Down like the gear
too worn from the rust
to trust with progression.
The blurred lines between
recession,
obsession,
depression
and regression.
With an ear to the ground,
do you even hear a sound
from me?
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
that accompany depression.
Lasting impression.
If left to your discretion,
this session would be brief.
The conventional discomfort
that mixes well with grief
and a hint of disbelief
has shaped your view of me.
Don't latch on to everything you see.
Down like knees over the glass
and the shrapnel
with hands tightly clasped
and pain ravaged eyes to the sky
begging for something whole
deserving less than half full.
Emotion the handful
that escapes when you squeeze.
Slow leak on snow peaks
dripping down into the valley.
Lower than trash in the dark alley.
Had today's dinner in my savvy
state of manufactured grace
but a lid across the face
and a knee to the gut later
and I'm no more fit
than I was when I begged for favors.
Surviving in the distance
by staying that far away
from the surface.
My purpose set
to be ignored and stepped over.
Who is lower than me?
Maybe she is.
Flung to the wall
or deep into the bed
head down
drowning sound
despite deliberate defiance
until somber silence.
A sullen science
one must be at their lowest
to voluntarily lust after.
Who is lower than she?
Maybe he is.
Pressed to the hood
observed in a hood
objectified and hunted in the hood
perceived as commonplace for no good.
Headbutt against wood and metal.
Testified that he was known to mettle
with the bright lights,
sirens
and shiny medals
sworn to protect.
No word of the neglect
to duty in dubious derelict
until incited and blown over
by people forced to love living lower.
How low can one be...
Lower than the stool
one stood over
tipped over
kicked over
by the tips of toes that longed to float
pulled too far down not to choke
provoked and
tired and
hopeless.
No guess unless defined
by the much more deranged
as simply a disturbed mind
that lacked social interaction.
Brisk, surprised reaction
without sufficient dedication to memory.
Who are we?
Depth can't recall.
We were taught from the crawl
to finish on our feet
but when forced to our seat,
we are closer to hands and knees
than we would be
had there been incentive
to remain standing
without the painful landing.
Low like the dust.
Down like the gear
too worn from the rust
to trust with progression.
The blurred lines between
recession,
obsession,
depression
and regression.
With an ear to the ground,
do you even hear a sound
from me?
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
No comments:
Post a Comment