FILTHY COMMONER
Spreading legs like religion,
confusion is lust;
sneezing,
dawning of devil in sand
Worms inching its way
into our sense, of normality.
Sitting on top of a well,
our flesh is a knotted out sheet,
wrung onto a chameleon.
Blending in with a brick wall,
Cigarettes are a morbid sense of pleasure
Feeding addiction into our eye sockets.
Mating with our pillow cases, that seem
to keep up better appearances than
our own.
Instinct's never intimate,
they have the mind of a caterpillar,
metamorphosing into a cocoon.
We'd say we've never been picking our noses, but yet,
we pick our dry snot.
Far off, love is rejecting us once again
like a common tissue.
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