voices given to those undeserving I see needles in this tank of water and the reflection goes blind seeing me seeing me rather emptiness than a sign of disease
the world is the world is not what you see what we see comfort and defeat go together exploration is uncalled for experimentation is blasphemous dogmatic traps
conscious revelations feel like the end justly so
purifying myth rationalization understanding losing every little word that hangs itself
in your throat reality is poisonous water the cup is filled to the brim
every night is a leaf at the bottom of your cup the songs are full of miserable howls lack of authenticity covered with shame and guilt covered with everything real
merging with all the suicide tools from the future
handicapped brain all hopes burnt alive the vestigial sparks in the eye point to a point
of no return turn your head it might be damaged too no laugh intended
the abc of suppressed anger anxiety fear of alliteration and a stream of muffled giggles
is unleashed wet lashes artificial sickening dead longed-for natural ridiculous
the symptoms were born with me
Darya Kulbashna is not a poet; she hears voices.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 