Trifling with your inadequacy
Your imagined idiocy
Satan speaking in your eye as his spit quenches yet stings your ice speckled blue eyes
Telling you dear, “You’re quite unfit.”
Splintering into the dollhouse that rivets and bends at the sound of your step
You are as cold as a witch’s tit by the 8th degree
—
To be peered up at closely as your buggered legs quiver at the touch of a child’s gentle curiosity
You think you are something because you have a self-coordinated name
Tripping over your indecisiveness, skipping to the next song, then skipping again
Tryin’ to drown it out, turning up the volume, and lulling your head like a rocking bassinet
Are the demons gone, yet?
Perhaps, they vacation for a bit before retreating back into the memory-foam of your mind
You are quite restless tonight
Maybe it’s from the whiskey
You toss, turn and your legs kicking up
—
It is the cool and bitterness of spring’s breeze
In the midst of happy flower and the sadness and starkness of your ex’s hollowed out eyes
From a poison too steepening like shouting into a bottomless mossy-brick well
No answers, endless blackness
Quiet stings as with each blooming daffodil and naïve lil’ daises
A screaming yellow pitching into your blanket of normality that is a cloak of an un-broadcasted TV channel’s heavy static
Black, white, gray
Ssshhh
The flashing light fades the pre-existing blurred composition
Gray, white, black
Ssshhh
Moving around the screen
Can’t keep track
—
Sunshine’s onto your bleak and calloused heart
Chipping away at the overgrowth of your disparity
Exposing your masochism and apathetic love notes
It leaks and sops into a bile of a beast’s gut
Dripping down from his mouth in a language of regurgitated words
Sticking like tar to the bottom of your soles
You walked away from it, but your soul didn’t
Sometimes the body of your heels double click when trekking well-known territories
—
Now barefoot on the sterile sandy shore
The water cerulean blue, the crests truest to sea foam green
And there
You are….
Melting
We are fused together even after the darkened fuchsia smoke
When approaching Summer’s welcoming end
There will be a slight yellow tinge to the tips of the sharp Silver Maple leaves
With the whispered finally of sleeping birds and the closing of lilies
Nobody spoke
Mixed-Media on board by MMM