I have a dark summer splinter.
A dreary hole between my ears.
A smile like a chilly needle.
A flower lives a more beautiful life than me.
A weed a more honest one.
Darkness eats my eyes, but none of that is why I cry.
I am a lonely cloud.
Others are storms.
Some are moving with the wind.
None are to join with me.
Not one circulating swirls of clouds.
the punching bag stutters
gripped in vine needles
convulsing while stricken
so it walks away hoping
pining to cross over
from emotional fruitions
it’s hiding won’t survive
those aggressive injections
won’t help to thrive
what counts when
nothing falls true
in a heap of bones
I need my lungs to explode.
Their steam to blast from my skull.
My hands need to be used up and raw.
All this energy makes me vile and toxic.
I’m tense like a whip already lashing.
Growling until my throat aches from fire.
I want to be on fire and sizzle my skin.
Breathe my own ashes as they float.
I think it might be rage climaxing.
Maybe lust is rolling like lava.
Ready to harden and never move.
I’m ready for that protection.
I need to cool off.
Captain Jack Sparrow.
Inbox me (1) thing you want to know about me.
Working the graveyard shift,
looking very weary,
pulling in the pennies,
you’re keeping bound the rift.
I care for you most dearly.
In the cracks of foundations,
You laid out your mask.
You called it your yearly heart.
To resent the actors,
You glued on ugly factors.
Present you has changed your last.
You’re ready for whatever hits you lately.
"Time out," screamed to an empty courtroom,
A leather suitcase swung,
containing no single case.
But again you need more than a flinch on you cheek
or a bend in your wrist.
No it’s now it’s all been better than a yard of work.
It’s all come together, except.
Not the ways you were supposed to be,
or the way you remember you’d left it be.
Before. But not after the you shirked your wars.