SCOTT WHEATLEY
EDGE OF ILLUMINATED CONFORMITY
The prescribed prescription meant for your eyes only
My soul screams out for self medication
Muffled voices become my egress
A way to deal with the numbness
Born from cracked faces and weathered smiles
Nothing more than concrete for miles
Effortlessly lined like tiny sardines
Neatly arranged in their tins; side by side
Pierced through the darkness of night by vicious vulgarity
Ideas slowly resonating into consciousness
My existence screams for assistance
Corridors filled with emptiness my mistress
Cornered by screams so threatening
Mangled, distorted smiles menacing
Visions forced into practical solutions
Some leave my mind before the morning