This is so ridiculous
My mind tries to be so meticulous
But it's ideals are quite insidious
The mess in this room is hideous.
It's painted over with invisible blue.
It's a hue... You don't get it, do you?
They suspect the unexpected -
It's unexpected because it's too deep to be detected.
Since when did they become detectives?
There's something else I should inspect:
The conflict arising when I assert
And the other me wants a real answer.
Place it in an exposition
And watch what it does; inquisition;
X-rays, x-rays; find the tumor
Growing in the folds of humor.
Let us have a quiz show!
Whose laughter is this, do you know?
"It's yours! I can tell!"
Sure, you can tell, but can you know?
Did you notice how the smile fell?
Does anyone have a real answer,
Something to explain the cancer
Growing inside the shell of this Cancer
Crawling sideways across the floor,
Scuttling into painted ideals,
But never a door,
Or a hamster wheel,
Or something to distract this
From the thought of keeling over?
She's turning over the x-rays.
"Everything's fine," she says,
But that doesn't explain or excuse
The messy room in her head.
"This is so ridiculous,"
The Mother Cancer inside her commented.
"I can't scuttle sideways or face my obstacles."
What do you expect me to do?
What is this...invisible blue?
Start by taking off the layers.
Peel them off with your claws, if you have to!
Do you even know what's good for you?"
I want an answer,
Mother Cancer,
Not a version
Of assertion!
I'll place this in an exposition
We'll see if anyone cares.
What? Was that really unexpected?
You thought you were a detective?
Have you ever self-dissected,
Pulling out every piece,
No matter if it's deceased.
Or keys to something
That you've lost?
In fact, that could be what you're looking for.
You'll need to look forever more.
Maybe look inside yourself.
At the x-ray. Examine your mental health.
Mother Cancer left the room
And returned to what's bound to doom itself.
The heart, one day, won't be reluctant
In completing the task of self-destruction.
A task?
The wishlist only gets longer
Because I can't help but ponder
What ones supposed to and built to want.
I write them down in my own font.
They fall off the shelf,
Unraveling towards bad health.
I try to paint them as they come down.
Nothing's working... Get out of this town?
No matter where I move
I will always have this tumor,
The body of a Cancer,
With its shell, its insanity enhancer.
It keeps it all hidden.
But not free. Its all bedridden.
Nothing goes out, nothing goes in.
Quarantine every sin.
Clean their bedpans,
But don't touch their cold, dead hands.
The invisible blue will get stuck on you.
"But it's just a hue..."
You don't get it, do you?
Check their folds of humor;
It's better to take care of it sooner.
Hopefully, it's not too late
To bother medicating.
This is so ridiculous.
My room is so meticulous
But my other ideals are still insidious.
The mess in my mind is hideous.
Any feedback would be appreciated.
This is from such a long time ago...haven't touched this in over a year xD
