Artifex Pereo Deadweight
I have a glove full of pointless bones and veins
sucking the blood from my heart like leaches,
containing nothing but weight,
I am heavily walking left again.
My complaint stems from the miscalculations of assembly gone wrong.
Five shovels dig their way into my skin as a symbol of rejection.
Poor attempts to even me out consist of asking stubborn men
to believe in something they doubt,
a bona-fide affliction of necessity.
Open my head and examine the threads connecting fingers to the brain.
A simple seed planted in me grew into an interposing tree.
The world has been overlooking obvious signs of informality.
Embrace the light of those speaking without a mouth full of twisted tongues.
Weaved and complexes, ridges like waterways spill
where the ocean meets the shore of my wrist.
I alleviate the tempting, so tempting urge to unfasten.
This is not a temporary affair. I am prepared to be more helpless.
