red brick hunting,
uncovered my hiding.
which got in the way
of your shelters lighting.

only want to stay cold,
and slant at the taste,
of the washed up empty can
clenching life on the crate.

To get out of this cloud,
it's ró-fhada with build up,
not prepped to stay floating
with only dead weight output.

my legs will not stand,
heart flown to no land,
on the peace we swore
that was missing.

I'm here on my own
wavering through the shifts,
It feels dark and lonely
where is it, your wits?

it makes me feel ill,
rigorous tears to be shed,
but because I am full
i may fall off instead.

Because the chair is rocking,
unbalanced and changing
its colours through fevers
needs somewhat behaving.

although nothing is wrong
im taking the day off
from being responsible
from being known of
and only turning on.