06.01.2012
36, Rustavi, Gürcistan
I am ill
I am not well today
The exactness of day causes my eyes to flinch
The skin I’m suppressed by itches
I scratch; I claw at the muted flesh
It answers only in spit
I think I am ill
Coming down, dropping the high
Headache, opaque inside the skull, I can see the clouds
Pass through here, the world
Runs faraway
It’s quaint as a still portrait of a mother
And is reflected as unreal in a landscape canvas
I gaze blind at it, examining the people inside
And wondering if I could slip between the paint
My health is faltering
I see faces in the dark and hide
Beneath the sheets
I expect the night’s jaw
To dislocate and swallow
My segment of life whole
I’ve lost years haven’t I
I am sick
Thick with no tricks
I joke, but they are real
And they are not
I am weary,
I am ravenous
I am full stomached on oxygen
And want no more
I am not well today
The exactness of day causes my eyes to flinch
The skin I’m suppressed by itches
I scratch; I claw at the muted flesh
It answers only in spit
I think I am ill
Coming down, dropping the high
Headache, opaque inside the skull, I can see the clouds
Pass through here, the world
Runs faraway
It’s quaint as a still portrait of a mother
And is reflected as unreal in a landscape canvas
I gaze blind at it, examining the people inside
And wondering if I could slip between the paint
My health is faltering
I see faces in the dark and hide
Beneath the sheets
I expect the night’s jaw
To dislocate and swallow
My segment of life whole
I’ve lost years haven’t I
I am sick
Thick with no tricks
I joke, but they are real
And they are not
I am weary,
I am ravenous
I am full stomached on oxygen
And want no more
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