It happens too easily these days...
I end up with a mustache or a teardrop.
Together they're too much but none is not enough.
Crying over love or pressure.
Never both.
Never together at the same time.
Living in solitude.
Among the other lost ones that sometimes forget how lost they are.
Escaping in the walk to the grocery shops.
Or the drilling through the walls.
The brick walls that have holes now.
At least it's warm outside...
At least the sun is shining today.
But I'm thinking as I'm sitting: what am I still doing?  Still being.
I need to go somewhere to find something else.
Or else I'm a dead woman every day.
Taken away by everything.
Too much.
A quirky little mustache.
A pretty little tear.
A dancing in the street.
A song on the staircase.
Real true love.
Too much pressure.
Too much.
Mustache!

The ruination of a twenty minute piece,
only two stanzas in verse but a  Michelangelo
of verse, but in full discontent it crashed
and my art became white washed into oblivion...

I swigged three vodkas at the nothingness that
stared back, there are some that are creations
never to be repeated, an amnesia of vison
but all I got was a 502 reload **** that...