Wite-Out Erasure

Kaleidoscopic vision and smeared paint senses

I slide through static with blackout lenses

Nothing can touch me, for I don't touch

No blood to bleed or bones to crunch 

Voiceless, I echo. As shadow, I'm free

Incorporeal as the mists over the salted seas

Ink blotted on paper, I'm a fable given form

Gossamer skin, moth eaten and torn

Scenes dot my mind but none ever stick

Silhouettes dispersing like flies and ticks

If I was ever here, I'm now most definitely not

You seek a person that both you and I forgot

For I'm not real. You wouldn't be either If you were smart

Afterall, no dagger can pierce a fictitious heart.

No back to betray, no hands to be bitten

No tongue to confess this story unwritten 

The abuse. The harm. All plots on a pallid page

Tragedies on paper don't deserve my reaction or rage.

Dear reader and witness, is there even room to be born

Among those ghostly ruins, run ragged and worn

To deny my own life, you must think me mad

You'd be too, if you had lived like I have

No life worth living is living like this

So I'll hollow myself out in dissociative bliss

Clear and crystal bottles of spirits most holy

Green leaf incense to turn the mind slowly

A thousand different tinctures, but no cure to sell

No harm in poisoning this drought and dried well

So dear reader, what do you think?

Is a poisoned well still worth the drink?