A stench that was once a curiosity – old fashioned “church lady” perfume. Of course that’s a fragment, but so is the memory. I recall a tiny, smooth bottle with a glass stopper, filled with what would become two dissonant memories. Continue reading
if words were like pennies i would truly be rich
for all the things i want to say to you
swarm my brain like pissed off bees defending their hive.
if words were ice i would truly be frozen
by all the icicles hanging in my skull
like dripping daggers painting to my heart.
is words were brush strokes on canvas i would be world reknown
for all the masterpieces i have created for you
in many hues of blue and blue and blue.
if words were clouds the world would die
smothered in the darkness my words keep me under
in my strain with the pain that lingers everywhere in me.
if words were bullets i would perish
in the prison of my love that cages me
while i aim at you and point the barrel at me.
if words were weeds i would pick up gardening
and pull them ’til my fingers bled and my hands stiffened
and my back broke and my body was covered in the earth
but they would keep growing.
in reality –
i am broke, warm, and of average artistic ability
i see the light most times
i am alive and i don’t care to week a garden
of my bitterness.
i feel –
rich with hurt, frozen from intimacy, a maestro of the pallet,
darkness surrounds me,
i am dead and can’t see it through vines of
betrayal that grip my legs
wrap around my neck
and swallow me whole.
if words were freedom I would truly be free.