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Misery

How She Clings to Me

By Joke MarfskyPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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You look at me in disgust—but there is nothing new here. A disappointment in love, family, life

Scholarly mucked about. And scrambled—a druggie, junkie, perceived to be, what I may be if all we are are our actions.

What of fantasy? What of the universes that exist, that some of us can’t help, but to constantly stumble through the empty doorways. Of cellar doors on this endless stairwell to hell; the descent alone is maddening.

That’s why I’m an escape artist. And this feat is going to be my best trick turned— greater than the curtain of existence, slyer than being deeply closeted in my gender-fluidity, more guile than being able to fool everyone with a facade of faux-me. Gut-punchier than the tears and how they are so cleverly confused with being stoned, guys— my eyes don’t get bloodshot when I smoke.

It’s like falling asleep in front of the television lit- higher than usual, much higher than usual. Tripping through the hallway of grand transitional doorways; plank spaces of time/space, viscerally muddying up the soles of our shoes and souls within this fold of three-dimensional fuck-all.

Holy hallucinatory existence of fractal enlightenment—

We awaken to the sound of the screaming rainbow channel and our eyes float to orange. We awaken to the desert sun, lit like the end of a cigarette— you can see the long road ahead of you. The road I travel; the sand around my feet—

Lips stained red—biblically drunk,

like the prophets before me.

Lit like my ancestors before me.

Wanting death, but being too disguised by the cowardice before me.

——

Welcome to the family;

don’t you see we’re all mad here?

Is it possible for misery to comfort me?

Is this where I, the littlest pig, built my brick house?

——

Don’t forget—

if you forget how blurry the line you walk is— this blurred blank space of time and distance.

A brief moment of silence. Requiem on the shores of tomorrow— where the consequences are as coarse as the sand slipping through the hour glass as the anxiety begins to uproar and you become sad again, because your anxiety is so predictable, but never avoidable.

——

We say trigger warning; because these are the thoughts that beat with the same intensity that our hearts weep.

So don’t forget that the line you crabwalk alone is fucking sand in your shoes- take off your glasses wino- you probably need to puke...

The line is supposed to be blurry, you’re just hyper-sensitive and over-stimulated. You’re becoming your misery—

Escape again,

fool everyone.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Joke Marfsky

NE poet. 26. Aspiring filmmaker. Bartender by trade. Mentally inverted metro-pan/asexual.

📷@jk.marv 🐥@marfsky

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