I'm doing this no justice.
Saving my tongue for dryer days, keeping the ones I actually love from losing their own pinkish tails in my waning nonsense.
Sane and civil... because I am my fathers shifting chameleon; his white blazer and my mothers blood orange; her Lorazepam.
My name alone is treaty.
One lonely gabble lodges itself inside of my esophagus.
Get lost founding father.
Burn harder rebellion.
I need me on my surface, not buried under the expected ammunition of ink.
End your sparkle, sparkler.
Here, your exploding gold only crushes the windpipe of flowers.

I have nightmares that stretch my fears towards our waking sun.
Yawning out the last sighs of moon.
Once again, I hesitate and stumble on tongue.
I've seen my words startle rust like the flat cat call 'boos’ of halloween towards November.
Since I've been buried, halloween hasn't missed a year.
And the gibberish of its mask will always sting as resonant.