The clown keeps a journal filled with his suicidal thoughts;
His face wet with paint and his hair soaked in dye,
he laughs to himself as he reads the words scribbled across the pages.
They crescendo like the build up of a joke -
splashes of ink blots suggest that his pen blew up before the punch-line.

He remembers a time when the earth was grey;
the morning dew seeped into everyone’s socks
and they walked around with heavy feet,
indifferent to the man beside him
walking on the bare flesh of his toes.
Then a stream of water dribbled out from the prank flower on his chest.

In a world so addicted to tragedy,
comedy is sublime,
like the nicotine rush from a cigarette.

Yet laughter is a bond so easily broken.
The white on his face can wipe away,
the lipstick can smear,
and the dye can fade.
But beneath all of that is a smile,
a smile that persists
because nothing is wrong
when the clowns come out.

Green leaves lay surprised
Hurried out so frostily–
With no chance to change!

I fell in love with
The sinless man,
But even he can
Still break my heart.

Sentences like daggers
Thrown mindlessly,
Likely unintentionally,
But still sharp nonetheless.

Intimate betrayal,
I’m overreacting,
Under reacting;
I’m done reacting.

You find pleasure
In others;
It’s not another,
But it isn’t me.

Wide open arms,
You run right past me;
You don’t touch me,
Not when you’re *****.

Sinless man exposing
His lust openly,
A lust not for me,
A sinless hurt.