P.O.W.’s in relation to Contact Lenses

A war with my eyes.

The contacts finally infiltrated my head.

They got me seeing what they want me to see.

Better time has been spent.

 

Dirty fucking lenses, depressed.

Pull them out, wash them again, these transparent helpers.

Pull them out again, wash them, these irritating helpers.

 

Try not to drop them, an infection will put your bulbs out.

Try not to drop them, an infection will put your bulbs out.

 

Contacts in my eyes trying to act as though they aren’t; like a love not accountable for, a passing moment lost in thought.

 

Dirty view of the world, yet the lies are clearly defined.

It is no eyelash, that there is technology in your eye.

 

Despite the fact that my face has had a weight lifted off of its surface, it doesn’t feel right inside.

Although I hadn’t seen myself with my own eyes in years it doesn’t effect my perspective of the world.

Its so surreal.

 

My glasses sit in a case, like a coffin, which is in my bag, waiting for me to see it again from their side.

Old fashioned guy.

 

Blink again and I am reminded that I am alive.

Blink again and I realize the time.

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