I'm but a scattered pigment
On the wall, on the ceiling, on the floor
I stained everything I touch or hold
Neither you nor them could easily get a grasp
'Cause I'll just slip through your fingers' gap

I'm but a messy art
A masterpiece by a frustrated god.

her hair was messy in an artfully, mesmerising way
she had an accidental class that she was not aware of possessing
she would answer your questions in a way that kept you guessing
when she would speak
she would make you believe
that she created language in the time that she had free
her hair was messy in an artfully, mesmerising way

Hindsight, hallowed be thy name.

All I've got is luggage... luggage!
My God! Turn around; find my comrades slumped under the weights strapped to their spine!
Limping, bearing, burdened by non-negotiables while the High Court of Good Karma takes collective sabbatical —
and this knapsack of shame, I've partial credit in filling.

Grey handkerchief, original sin:
one. single. suckerpunch. and my fists are raised forever,
begging for the chance to swing and prove my own strength
— supposing the opportunity never fell into my lap — I'd said "**** it," packed a

hundred grams of bushy brushed-out curls, stop-sign red
fifty grams of lips to match (uniform too, now I think about it)
fifty grams of raccoon eyelids and coloured-in brows
hundred grams of halls of mirrors, circus-attraction Alice
lose a hundred/gain a hundred/repeat til dizzy
hundred grams of ******-in stomach, eyes averted in changing rooms
wigs by the armful — that's three — nom-de-plumes thrown in gratis
(it's only a journey to the rest of my life anyway, I'll need them,
alternative being cinematic debut as Myself)
hundred performances to imaginary audiences, less-than-stellar reviews
hundred grams of overwhelming then underwhelming "on purpose"
hundred grams of laughing off any belief in potential
hundred grams of scratch-marks and verbal fountains of venom
hundred grams of giving almostneverquite as good as I got
hundred grams of group-work alone thank ****(?)
hundred biro-holes stabbed in martyred pencil cases
feral in broad daylight spoiling for a fight
kilo of aiming for 'scary' and landing on 'strange'
kilo of being third to make good company a crowd
kilo of taking sixteen years to find Her
— Shadowboxer Fiona, rhythms invisible, catharsis in art —
hundred doodled superstitious evil-eyes in the ruled margins
hundred laments over the inability to provide a better future

(removed one by one whenever I think the future's mutable)

that one glimpse of white lightning in a violet storm
one single minute's pause to look over my shoulder
scarce-to-zero progress made
endless miles to go
breathless body soaked to the bone
and this useless! *******! bag! of Everything and nothing of value!!
mansions worth of loathing yet there's nothing to lose
did I decide that because I can't change the world, I can change nothing at all
(instead throwing darts at reflections/emotional *****/kicking stray dogs as a full-time hobby)?

O clarity so saccharine that I cannot be angered by the wasted years
only because THERE ARE MORE TO COME
I take it
   off my shoulder,
the first kind action I have spared myself in time unguessable
empty
     the
        contents...
   really
    air it out...
and trudge on
    unaccompanied.
The world's enough of an uphill climb.

maybe it was a mistake
letting you strip me naked
my body exposed and my soul bare
when you couldn't do the same

but maybe i should've been patient
and didn't let these emotions run wild
but we can't really love each other
when we haven't healed from the past
(can't i be the one to heal you?)

maybe it was easy blaming you
so i could move forward
without ever looking back
for i can't break your walls

maybe we're both at fault
all those times we said some things
we didn't mean and regretted later on
where did we ever go wrong?

maybe we didn't try hard enough
and that we gave up too soon
is it even possible, love?
to water each other and grow together?

but through all of my maybe's
and the times we hurt and get hurt
the only thing i didn't regret—
was meeting and falling for you

It’s one of those messy days
When nothing is quite right nor wrong
But ain’t life just a bundle of a lot of those messy days

No matter what I do, I'm always being told what I'm doing wrong.
"Just stop! You can't do anything right!"
"Why do you do the things you do?!"
"Can't you do anything right?"
As I sit in this lonely bed tonight, all I can think of is how I'm the screwup of my life.
How I will never achieve the statuses my elders have.
How I keep letting those around me down.
I am the screwup.
Nothing more and nothing less.

Lately I have been shrinking,
the keg I once proudly was
now trickles down to a pint.
For the numbers flutter off the scale
like hail violently pelting the earth.
I've lost 30 lbs in two months
and I hold my chest a little higher.
I am noticeably skinnier
such that my enemies quiet.
The weight of my stomach hardly droops
but the weight of the world
seems to have only been growing.
The world has turned into a mess
The dept has surpassed my ears
and the expenses only get taller
The pressure of marriage and family
to satisfy the woman I love requires,
the atmospheric pressure of society
and my internal pressure to become someone
has created a density difficult to bear
For every pound I have lost
Gravity gains ten thousand more
And yes my body is shrinking,
But so is my wallet, my belongings,
my spirit to keep on going
my life force that keeps me awake
and the energy I have to think straight.
Yes, my whole world is shrinking.