Wrote nothings and licked over the edges,
sealed shut for a nebulous purpose.
I’ve packaged air to send across the waves
to crawl down the back of your neck,
picking out the hairs to stand at the ready.
Gunning for that niche in the gray matter.
Had a thought there was still a seat saved.
Hurts to recognize I’m a magazine salesman,
seeing a story where I’m the fuck up,
you’re the right one,
and I can’t argue much of it.
Decomposed a symphony rolling out.
Tied a strategic knot in the tongue.
Vocal cords would’ve become useless anyways.
Actions purchase their consequences.
Hurts to realize I’ve fucked up.