postarity

(w)here home is nothing more than a phrase,
a cheap rhyme with a gold crown.

somewhere inbetween
postarity and guilt

writing just to write
killing ink, wasting trees.

if it's real it's covered in plastic
a camouflagued and hollow shell

all that's overpriced has aftertaste.
eat your words with a smile

they won't hear it if you bleed
nothing to feel when you scream

sweating in a sweater because "you're cold"
body heat is not the (stone.)

it's something between
postarity and guilt.