This Juvenile World 


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I’m haunted in November again
In corridors of time’s fleeting
To be a ghost oneself, to oneself
In the lonesome places
Where age meets security

To be shut up in verse
Like an artist tied and captive
To the abolishment of normalcy
The lives others lead, I’ve been
Placed inside a closet of make-believe

And when I show my head
To the world, I feel absurd
Or else, the world appears absurd to me
But what if I abolished creativity
In separate drawers, art has a smaller possession

Than it once did in dreary youth
But I’m still Nobody, Who have you become?
We’re not a pair of invisible, we’re separated
By digital noise, channels as juvenile
As the potential of a word, the possibility of a voice
There’s nothing the world has,
That I want anymore, it’s a con and a game
With every blossom and on every bush
My route to evanescence is a Saturday hush.