"They" are the reason I put gin in my vinegar. I am light years ahead, a misfit. "They" crush my very existence into tiny white lies. 13 stripes, 50 stars in the wide eyes of time’s bride: Now is not the place to erase history deface Its story. Meditate to medicate blissfully.
To my reader: you are full of beauty, and so is this world.
Bitter anger and confusion like vinegar won't stop love from flowing. They are both liquid coursing together through the great channels carved by passion. When dammed, these too overflow. I must, somehow, create culverts and new places to go.
when he says he wants to put you in a poem, don't believe he'll put your petals to his nose, inhale gently, and enumerate the tickling scents waltzing in his nostrils. believe he'll put your stem to his tongue lick the thorns slowly to open his masochistic metallic blood. believe that he'll spit that blood on the floor or in a teacup to sit out for hummingbirds. believe he'll paint you naked in verse clothe you in meter and strip you once more. believe that no poem is refuge and that your ugliness and his ugliness will not make a poem beautiful.