photographic smiles

i stop in the center of catastrophe
breathing in the stench of failure
capturing in the palm of my hand
the halt of a future
i once saw so clearly
but now cannot find.

there are a million shards of glass
reflecting my torn
rippedandslashed state of
being
and i cannot hold on to the passing of time

the passing of life

a proportion of stashed away
soul
shouts for my recognition but
i cannot hear what can perfect
a long ruined situation
i call myself

it is not easy picking up the pieces
that taste like smithereens and look like
nothing.

my mind is dead
and it is not for long
before i blind myself with
a colourless truth
that perhaps i am not as great
as i hoped to be
because greatness became
non-existent ever since the day i
picked up a razor blade
and smiled at it.

it is a cruel world
with no place for me.

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