Autopsy Of Disordered Phrases

Sometimes red maple leaves are not enough to call it autumn.

       

Sometimes a man gets up and ties his shoelaces 

    the proper way.

Sometimes most of the things need not be mentioned,

    in the lapse of two seconds,

But that is only because I am an introvert, isn't it? 

    And that potentially means I have changed, doesn't it?

Every morning the same mistakes in spellings are there.

    How I spell 'Reality is skinning bones and collecting peace somewhere else.',

is way different from what they overestimate.

And I dare say, 'Maybe, there is a dragon down my spine

    and maybe a prince 

(who knows how to tie his shoelaces the proper way,

probably better than how I do my corsets)

would control it anyway',

   

But I hold a casket filled with daydreams too. 

   I am a woman, 

 and though not too loud, I speak too. 

I am sorry that my lipstick is red

 and the window seat is broken (for now).

'Shut up. Stop whoring around. You bring shame to your mailman's dog!'

You see, the skirts I wear are grey with patches of blue indigo.

  There's a slit that knows its highs,

and the neckline is flowery,

       but a little too deep for questioning eyes.

You see, there is a line crossed out in my autopsy reports,

   a little too deep for questioning eyes.

Did I mention that I am a writer too,

      that I jot things down onto morning breaths,

Oh, and not to mention that I also spell things differently?

      But that you know already, don't you? 

And also, that I invent future from clay and corpses.

Alas! my skirt is red now with blue indigo flowers,

    that I painted myself from blue ink

(which got splashed on my fingernails).

Alright, that's a little exaggeration there,

the ink dried too soon for me to scribble,

   the blue flowers were not there,

   the skirt was not there,

I was possibly bare to the winds of September.

Or maybe not.

And I mean well. 

Or maybe not.

Maybe it is just a sad day and you are quality prose in it,

       or maybe it is just a bad poem that is exploited by my frustrations 

occasionally.

Take it or lose it forever to mists and other precipitations.

Who am I in the end? 

~ A so-and-so writer who spells things differently?

~ An average girl who does not like skirts at all? 

~ A red-lipped woman without a microphone? 

I could be a history of the universe in seventy minutes,

     I could also be a sinking iceberg in that universe.

There is no end to this. Now visualise and repeat what I just said.

  

      And this won't look different from home anymore.

'Shut up. Just quit it now. Your words are twisted.'

Alright. 

        I do not want to be that someone who says the right things

the wrong way.