As I lie on a sinking bed
The whirling is mystifyingly soothing
As I lie on a sinking bed
The ends are coming up
And I feel the cold, cold floor
Enveloped in cushions that are bruising
As my mind searches to be fed
From a non-existent memory cup
And The bed has lost its core
There is nothing left but a slow oozing
The air has bled
Mr Deville I’m ready for my close-up
There is nothing left to restore
Categories: mental health, poetry, Psychology
Cushions that bruise. Love.
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thanks š have a great day
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