when WE- were people

remember the suicide
holding the thoughts make me feel guilty for the sight
inflicted on the common, uncertain, eyes
each and every last place, is the beginning of a changing face
the eyes shattered into tears, and the blood bled red for disgrace
people fell and people feel
people misread the things people steal
this was a lack of confidence, a booster shot that was only to help people feel
chalk one more up to the way people wish people were real
people talk in such candid tones, with no escape from the skin that peels
OR-ANN-Ges give people the nutrition people can conceal
within the skin an itch for the new flavor of sin
people walk away and turn slowly so that people can begin
people can't deal with the fact that loss is so serious
it bothers this one, the man sitting quietly behind his tears
shed on the paper blotted ink in the memories people shred
insanity lingers in this mans hand and is used as a tool to tread
on the things he wishes he could leave behind for dead
this is a new era for the ones he refers to with care
a community to build where people can exist with abilities to share
a grand achievement in a Marxist ideal for flair
shiny but cheap, and expensively thrown down the stairs
if people could skip down stares then people wouldn't ever challenge the look
history repeats itself and people forget that people wrote the book
no matter how average the people think they are people always are
never to take time to extenuate the mileage... no matter how far
how far... how far is too near, how far is too real? how far is to scar
and when, when exactly does scar tissue evaporate?
this man, the one behind the tears, asks this of his peers
they shrug and tell him it doesn't apply to their ideals
so that's the argument of the lost meals
people don't want to feed the brains with turning wheels
just squares, squares that have gone, lost in the WORDS IT FEELS
feelings are unexplainable, but people seem to describe it with zeal
that was the last time this man thought he could actually feel
we've lost this common boarder for the memories that peel
long lost, forgotten and set aside on pause, because people feel
or... pretend to feel.
except that man with the blotted ink scars on his paper face

~Lost in the perils of pears and pearls, no response, no way to flaunt.

Love,
Digress.