Sometimes I haven't a clue what to name a piece I just churned out, I just do it and slap an "Untitled" on it. Perhaps some other time I'll figure it out, but for now this'll do.
Like any and all good citizens in this modern era, I feel a strange range of emotions when regarding mirrors outside of their chief purpose. I've written a bit of stuff on 'em m'self, and this is just the most recent.
My hands are on the wrong places in the mirror
I look again and the thumbs are upside down
I blink and they're back again, facing the wrong way
Why can't I see my palms, the lines engrained in the callous?
Why won't the mirror let me see it?
My hands are facing the wrong way in the mirror.
I can't look up I know he's looking at me
It's trying to tell me something but I don't know
I can't understand what he's saying, communication
It's broken down between us, but I must know.
My hands are on backwards in the mirror.
A subtle message, clear of restraint and fear
He wants me to know, he needs me to know
And I'm honestly trying to understand
But the vision is unclear and the mirror is dirty.
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