Your memory
Nails on a chalkboard
The color of an orange lamp
Or the heavy paper stamp
On an envelope of illusion
Cliche delusion
I toss around these terms
Insides turned to worms
Squirming not like butterflies
Tell me what your money buys
Because it never bought me
I can't pick: hide, see, or flee
I long to be deaf
To a memory of the bereft
I long to be at home
And for my heart to be sewn