Self-induced Comatose

Let us not try to uncover

The idea behind this poem.

Such words elude meaning

As if a potion for death

After our very last breath.

 

This could be something else entirely.

Doing away with your interpretation

With nothing, not even my perception

Is gullible enough for these words’ misdirection.

 

This could be an explosive

To the door of your world of thoughts

Being in itself the meaning

In your own definitive scale.

 

This could be a pause;

A living poem in a hiatus

To the world we despise

Along with my anguished cries.

 

This could be nothing

As it’s supposed to be.

However, being nothing

Is being like anything.

 

Anything this could ever be

Like water taking the form of its container

To be something more than it already is

Escaping from the imagined reality.

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About Placido Penitente

I am what I write and I write to live. I am an Epiphany. A part of my consciousness travels endlessly around the universe...and inside the halls of your mind. Nothing personal. A part-time sociopath. Male. Republic of the Philippines. College student. Literature Major. View all posts by Placido Penitente

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