Days without poetry
              are
emotional droughts.

Oh the omnipresent soul
like a terracotta sponge
absorbing our resolve
now and forever after.

I feel the weight of nearly a hundred moons upon this suggestive flight deck, overtaken by transfusion in a high formation rhythmic way. Fluorescent headphones—neon red, rotate around neutral zones. Push in, pull out. Swim under the pink, towards some aerobatic link to mother earth. And still, we're not in orbit yet. Your dawning glow you blow into my lungs. Will you catch me if I blast away?

to climb out of bed
brush my teeth
and clear this head
to wash the dirt off of yesterday
no soap can clean up this shame
no ***** and lime can douse the flame
the pain I carry inside of me

Every day I fight
to set it free
this wildfire
the burning rage
and weld the pieces
broken off from age

Every day I fight
is a chore
leaving ruts across my bedroom floor
seeing wrinkles I hadn't before
and stores of fat rolls on my arms and legs

Every day I fight
walking on eggs
penning it all in red
under a marmalade sky
to shed some light on yesterday
and lay it in my garden
to harden with mother earth
and in this death some girth

A botched attempt at interpretation.