And make poems into audible sound,
Type it when it isn't coming out
I can scream as loud as you yet
I cannot hear the words coming out
Fight it and die
Lay a track in the mud
Danse again,
Danse macabre
A typewriter begs for me
Yet this atrocity beneath my fingers
Is all that comes
Laid to waste in the dust,
The dust is my home.
Clear the way, little rebel,
Bones break as easily
And I cannot distinguish
What is real from what is fiction
No one can
It's in our blood
Or lack thereof
And everything could be
An illusion of our minds
Collective subconscious
Unconscious
Every moment at once
Forever occurring
Make way for us all
We pour and we melt and we die
Determined
For one last shot.
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