a [d] diction
The death of me: these words work incessantly
Like cooks in a kitchen mixing without a recipe
Phrases speed on pages, collision on the precipice
Crash of a diction, the prescription is the melody
Art is a catharsis or a needle to a vinyl vein—
Scratching the surface, bleeding as I write away
Drowned in the sound, surfing on a tidal wave
Sands through my hand, slipping with the light of day
Been drunk off the ink, the pen parries the sheets
Stabbing wounds in a womb to carry the seed
The birth of thought, blooming, I'm buried beneath—
The root of all evil, and now its married to me
All bark and not a bite from the family tree
Let's pretend we're all peachy, syrupy sweet
Knocking ourselves out for the feel of the beat
Popping pills/taking notes hoping nobody sleeps . . .
on me.