A Poem: Master?

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WARNING: This poem contains adult language. Viewer Discretion.

Written in January 2020, but only brave enough to postJuly 2020.


I do not own this photo.

Sitting here in this empty house.

I feel so alone again.

The world is desolate– and I’m the only unlucky enough m*ther f*ck*r left to watch it all fall away.

I’m stuck in a loop as it replays the imbalanced insanity of this tape.

Dreadfully replaying sour,r energy and hateful memories.

I Fall Asleep, Finally.

Dream Of It.

Wake Up.

It’s Still The Same.

Are the days even changing?

My head is spinning– physically, literally.

Right ear to right shoulder.

Left ear to. . . . Everyone Left. . . .

Left. Left. Left. . . .

They All Just Left.

And I’m the shadow waiting for it’s Master.

Empty.

Paradoxically, too heavy.

An even echo of possibility.

I’m holding all the weight that everyone left.

It’s so terribly heavy lately.

I’m a martyr, Master.

I can’t seem to resist this burdening!

Why can’t I be like them, with no gravity?

They fly. I sink.

I mean, I can’t even swim!

F*ck it. I’ll pretend another day.

Light it up. Fake grins.

Replications. Transmutations.

Now the dog is staring at me. I stare back and wait . . . .

At least he feels what I feel.

He can relate.

He’s down deep inside too . . . Confused.

This isn’t a projection. He’s my mirror.

Poor bastard, He is. . . .

. . . . I AM!

Which poor bastard is more poor, though?

The human with more logic or the beast with sharper senses?

Who cares. It’s irrelevant. We both f*cking failed!

I do not own this photo.

So, now who is holding the key?

And where’s the Master?

Why has he only left me?

Wasn’t I good enough?

Beautiful enough?

Funny enough?

Smart enough for you, Master?

Get up!” I tell myself. “Move your useless legs!”

It must have been my pride speaking.

My replication playing games with me.

Perhaps, my fight instead of flight.

This shallow, soulless ego just really can’t stand to lose!

. . . ,

Eat your defeat.

I’ll chew on my pride.

It’ll be a feast.

I’ll fight here, alone; as my own master,

until this tired body decides to die.

. . . .

Hold Tight. . . . Replications. . . . Take Flight. . . . Transmutations. . . .

I have the key. . . I have the key!

Willing transformations.


©️ All rights reserved.


From Within the Labyrinth,

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Written By: Lakin LaShae

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