I was always smart-mouthed, quick-witted.
A repetition of symphonies of thunder: loud, resonating from my ears to the world.
It wasn’t a scream, maybe if you just turned and looked at me I could pick my heart up off the floor. When you left, it didn’t hurt my heart it hurt my stomach. I spat words from my tongue that stabbed into her body, leaving slots where flowers grew, they were purple daises. They meant nothing to me. I watched the flowers grow and covered her scent.
She just
I couldn’t seem to wake up; my eyes were being held close by Apollo’s grasp.
People say a woman’s body is a temple, I never gave a fuck I’m atheist. I always wanted to just hold someone and whisper sweet lullabies into their ears, I wanted to kiss their cheeks and leave them blushed as my lips left them. I wanted to leave imprints of my love on their bodies,
I wanted affection, I wanted lust, I wanted a lover.
I wanted lips, curves, supple lips, a cute smile and a mindset for happiness without someone.
My wit is slicker than a snakes tongue tasting the air of its prey, lashing out quickly, leaving small marks on the skin. Subtle yet potent: like venom I always wanted to be someone important so I started to care less and become the asshole everyone wanted me to be.
Is my wit deteriorating?
Am I becoming the insane man I once was?
Have I ever escaped?
What is this?
What the fuck am I doing here?
My wit is still about me, I can tell when the fake people lie.
I can see through the camouflage that people hide in.
My wit is still intact but I am still the insane man I once escaped, there is no escaping these walls I call my mental home.
This institutional place where I reside, it is painted with red words.


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