Refurbished by Ben Brizell
The broken delusions,
the fading past.
Tanned girls in crop tops,
pale girls with inverted crosses
tattooed on their face.
All wallowing on the delusion
of the self.
Cocaine tables on buses,
throats slit on shop corners.
The overarching reach of emptiness.
just another bump
or so they say.
The melancholy hangs, deftly in the air;
suicidal and words carved in chunks of skin.
Born only for death,
this is our cycle.
Purposed for the many,
overblown by the mass.
Darkening corners
creep from behind beds,
eyes and thought stare at me.
Meaning
to
meaningless
The past has scarred me.
Ben Brizell writes poetry and prose, some of its been published. He also writes a blog- BenBrizwritings- https://benbrizwritings.wordpress.com/
