This Morning My Brain Leaked Out of My Skull
by Law 'Lily' Robins
This morning my brain leaked out of my skull, oozing out of the cranium.
The lighting of candles for the dead has been repeated over and over.
The light of morning is actually foul and will never be no.
The writing of any book/novel has to be thought out.
Closure is fictitious and everything is too close.
The light hum of the air conditioner is highlighted by the cool breeze, which is actually
freezing.
Today my brain is as slow as a slow moving train, toddling along the tracks till the
haymaker collides with something or someone.
Defenestration, the act of throwing something for someone out of a window, legally it has
to be a second floor window.
And once I served in mock trail as a prosecutor of a second-degree murder case where I
made a witness cry but thoroughly enjoyed myself.
Shadows fall lifelessly siting where a person once sat.
It's wrong of me to be pleased that someone is missing, gone, disappeared, vacated the
premises.
The door opened without a creek and it’s only five minutes left.
Today is a slow shallow day; swing low, grey bones, organ donor.
It's a passing blue day of periwinkle and gun metal grey merged together like a forming
hematoma and sealed with a cicatrix.
The rictus grin is always disturbing perverse disgusting morbid comorbid, a madness
shared by two.
Pass it on like it was carried by carrier pigeon.
10 minutes to write brain stuff. Honestly there is nothing but words.
The passing of numerous time, a non-existent shackle binding all under its two hands that
slowly move across the face.
I once stuttered repeatedly shaking and moving through a bomb blue grey domain filled
with snow and ice rinks of cobblestones ice promised death if its long daggers fell from
above.
The endless rushing waters lead into the void, which is white at the end of the book.
I really want a coffee but the side effect kickback drawback is anxiety a loud screech of
chairs on the marble floor and the pinprick of having a needle shoved in deep to find a
vein for nine vials of dark crimson blood.
I like people for personality and personality because it s a complex game of change and
chance.
The passing of petroleum will hopefully sing in bioluminescence.
The lighting of candles for the dead has been repeated over and over.
The light of morning is actually foul and will never be no.
The writing of any book/novel has to be thought out.
Closure is fictitious and everything is too close.
The light hum of the air conditioner is highlighted by the cool breeze, which is actually
freezing.
Today my brain is as slow as a slow moving train, toddling along the tracks till the
haymaker collides with something or someone.
Defenestration, the act of throwing something for someone out of a window, legally it has
to be a second floor window.
And once I served in mock trail as a prosecutor of a second-degree murder case where I
made a witness cry but thoroughly enjoyed myself.
Shadows fall lifelessly siting where a person once sat.
It's wrong of me to be pleased that someone is missing, gone, disappeared, vacated the
premises.
The door opened without a creek and it’s only five minutes left.
Today is a slow shallow day; swing low, grey bones, organ donor.
It's a passing blue day of periwinkle and gun metal grey merged together like a forming
hematoma and sealed with a cicatrix.
The rictus grin is always disturbing perverse disgusting morbid comorbid, a madness
shared by two.
Pass it on like it was carried by carrier pigeon.
10 minutes to write brain stuff. Honestly there is nothing but words.
The passing of numerous time, a non-existent shackle binding all under its two hands that
slowly move across the face.
I once stuttered repeatedly shaking and moving through a bomb blue grey domain filled
with snow and ice rinks of cobblestones ice promised death if its long daggers fell from
above.
The endless rushing waters lead into the void, which is white at the end of the book.
I really want a coffee but the side effect kickback drawback is anxiety a loud screech of
chairs on the marble floor and the pinprick of having a needle shoved in deep to find a
vein for nine vials of dark crimson blood.
I like people for personality and personality because it s a complex game of change and
chance.
The passing of petroleum will hopefully sing in bioluminescence.
Bio: I am morbid. I identify as nonbinary. I lived in wet rainy Portland for a year and a half before coming home. As a writer, I favor short stories but from time to time I dabble in poetry. All of my characters have strange names such as: Null and Void, Nada and Edge, and Saphenous and Aorta. My favorite books are Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie and All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. A TV series that heavily influenced my writing and creative vision is Hannibal. Someday I want to go back to where I used to live.
