We die little deaths
every day.
When you feel
ice down your throat
no moisture to speak of
you’ve died
in another life.
Another you.
Another time.
Another universe.

Sometimes I forget
which one is me
which one is them
which one is alive
which one is dead.

How can you tell
when the flash is as lifelike
as it happening to you?

I’m too connected
but if I closed my eyes
I’d crash anyways.
I can’t save myself
then or now
so why do I try?

Let me slip in consciousness.
Let me smell the burning
taste the crunch.
Maybe I was happy then.
Maybe I could be happy again?

Happiness is a temporary state characterized by
I only have access to one of those things.


About Michael Robinson

An eclectic person living in a world rife with binaries, opposition, anger and pain and trying to find the spectra, love, happiness and catharsis within.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, XX30. Bookmark the permalink.

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