Green stripes against
The watered down red wine carpet
Almost like Christmas in August
Sauf the creepy fat man
Entering your house
Via the chimney.

The blue lines dictate where the letters begin,
And end.

The ticking clock reminds the brain
Of life, time passing.

Light seeps into the room from
The over illuminated hallway,
Fluorescent lights clarifying every dimple,
Freckle, pimple and scar.

The hallways silent with sleeping children
dreaming of fame, wealth and popularity.
The whirling of the AC separates the cool inside
from the sweltering heat
the setting sun left with the night.

The darkness brings no relief.

Vessels against the carpeted cement floor
resonating like a sound wave
through the whole body.
Pulsing from fingers to toes
in time with the metronome of the heart.

Each of the senses heightened
with the lack of sleep.
Joints swollen, pained from the strain of living
Life.

Every day is a new movement
In the symphony of life.
Every moment a new note is written
on another page
in the never ending book.

The soul swirling with emotion
Dizzies the eyes to reality—
Blurring, mixing

What is seen
What is imagined.

Blank stares at a blank wall
cause an eruption of creativity
Leading to hand cramps
And writing circles on the floor.

My mind, finally at peace,
At last able to leak some creativity
Onto an empty page.

Filling it with the emotion of
Black ink against a white sheet of
Lined paper.

She suffers from bouts of amenorrhea,
She masticates as often as the day is black,
You, her associates, claim to have no idea,
The young ossein—aged with many a crack.

The chassis appears, to you, to be gaunt,
No fervor for coitus intimates strangeness,
Her color looks like she is inclined to haunt,
Her apparel— ill-fitting, not made to impress.

When will you void your lack of knowledge?
She needs someone to come to her aid,
Take her hand and lead her from the edge,
Instead of averting, trying to evade.

Go and lead her in the right direction,
And help desist her craving for perfection.

I am mustard
sometimes spicy
sometimes sweet
attached at the heart
and limbs
to my other half
when not alone.

At first glance
I appear monotone
but with more of me
you experience a mixture of my
browns and oranges and yellows
previously believed non-existent.

I am ketchup
emotions dipped and pulled out of me
like fingers;
my dark red self sometimes
hidden behind brighter colors
meant to attract.

As a condiment
I am always there
available for your use
as a compliment or enrichment
but never a main dish.

Sometimes I am squeezed
from my small plastic comforts
thereby forcing me into the unknown
to which I respond as
nothing but a watery blob.