life is a fucked up jigsaw,
I'm just reaching for some scissors--
it's easier to cut it to tessellating bits
than force it together;
so I burn my reservations
down to stems and seeds,
and I leave the lucidity
in the grass and the reeds--
latchkey kids shoot joy in their veins,
purging the noise and the novacaine stains.
the heatseeking junkie preys on shivers,
with heroine bows and chemical quivers.
find Grief in man, the shaking walls--
release him in treble and bass--
not wasted angst on bathroom stalls,
or fixes filling the space.
sanity needs escape,
but escape is insanity--
find Balance on videotape,
even in stale humanities...
if life is a scattered jigsaw,
it's okay to use scissors sometimes.
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