A sculptor is like the ocean
Erosion causing form
And in the depths an inner peace
While outward rage the storm

A poet is like the spider
Their fans they do amass
And both of them make lovely things
They pull out of their ***
                                   rc

Isn't it passive aggression
Suggesting that class is in session
When your scattered remains
Lay all battered in chains
And it's triggering massive depression

Faking somnambulism
Staging some vandalism
It's your high anxiety
And not my sobriety
Creating this cataclysm

Your effort to fix the nation
Is really a sick salvation
By oppressing the poor
I am guessing that you're
Just causing asphyxiation

The long debated objectives
And your ill-fated directives
Are pausing the norm
And they're causing a storm
In these complicated perspectives
                                         rc

The kettle calls (a cattle call? Not really)
There's just us two and I just won't commit
The rain outside indicts with tears so freely
I still blindly want you to acquit

A bird is singing (stinging) acapella
Seeking leafy shelter from the gales
We're stuck inside without a cheap umbrella
With dialogue like scraping fingernails

The window pane (recurrent pain) is covered
In it's early morning alcoholic fog
Words were spat and in the air they hovered
This scene won't make the tourist travelogue

                                                               rc

We come ajoined along knife's inside edge
We're taken to temptation
Compelled to dance we're striding sliding
To the serpent's assignations

We swim amid the reeds of deep green seas
We're taken to the shoreline
Where whispered wonders wash our old dreams clean
So to new dreams false enshrine

As sour fruit betrays with flies and stench
We're taken to the knife edge
Battered, beaten broken belying our soul
Left to part along the ledge
                                                    rc

(not a metaphor)

Some think the caterpillar spins
A little sanctuary
And in two weeks a butterfly;
A tiny luminary,
Emerges all in perfect shape;
A little feat of magic
But let me tell you that's not it
The truth is much more tragic.

What happens in that little house
Is nothing short of frightening.
(Honestly, I looked it up
It's really quite enlightening)
The pupa just digests itself
Right down to primal soup
Then, still alive, it has to cause
It's stem cells to regroup.

Then it grows and grows again
Into a butterfly.
The nature is amazing;
The science can't deny
So when you see a butterfly
Do it's pollination bit,
You should remember that this bug's
Been through a lot of ****.
                                   rc

The street, good friend, is pocked and hard
In answer to your question.
My feet are black, my lungs are charred;
No boots to pour my flesh in.

Sometimes when I am bibulous
An easiness can feign.
Without that drunken impetus
The maggots roam my brain.

On dry days dust will bloom and choke.
The grit abrades my teeth.
The wet turns dirt to greasy yolk
And fouls my skin beneath.

With body sores that ooze and stink,
No comfort can be found.
My sanity is past the brink.
In pathos I am bound.

You see I'm hideously scarred
And make a sour impression.
The street, good friend, is pocked and hard
In answer to your question.
                                                rc