Countenance

I feel fried alive
Baked in the sun.
Everything's gone inside
My diaphragm.

Pen,
Running out of ink
I can no longer think
My mind is on the brink
And flowing down the sink.

I feel pulled alone
Stretched 'cross the bone
Lonely in tone
And buttons not sewn.

I feel weak as peas
Small as fleas
Quaint as a sneeze
Letting go in the breeze.

I feel wasted past tasted
Full and complasted
Waning on slasted
Scimming and pasted.

I feel pronged by a gong
Riddled by song
Hummed right along
Punched by a dong.

I feel bricked by concrete
Aghast in self- defeat
Quick to deplete
And dying to eat.

I feel empty but sane
Closed with refrain
Falling again
Brimming with sin.

I feel pounded with dread
Cold and overheated
Filling with lead
Chopping up bread.

I feel done in the sun
Hot with no fun
Never to run
Weighing a ton.


I feel burdened with hate
Slow to equate
Bound by the slate
With chalk, that I ate.

I feel royal and toiled
Stringy and boiled
Sweet, salt, and soiled
But tastefully loyal.