Laketop after flood.
Thawed fish kiss the surface air,
Bask in Springtime sun

I have so much to say.
Too much.

These words; these perfect vessels I have upon the page,
They should work.
They would work,
But me and my vile Mind have other ideas.

“It must be perfect.
Your poetry has to be perfect, beautiful and convoluted for you to be proud of it.”
In my skull there is a ****.

So much is secured for it cannot satisfy. So much not said.
Even this poem is garbage to me through my strainer of acceptability from truth. A filthy clump of straightforward letters without metaphor. It hate it. I hate this poem as I hate most,
All of which I want to desperately to write about.
Always stopping myself.

I WANT IT OUT!
GET OUT OF MY ******* MIND YOU FILTHY STAINS OF SHITTHOUGHT, HOPE AND HATE!
But my hand will not except the pen,
And I am left only with my vile Mind.

Shall I compare thee to a cradle bright?
Though what shine of diamond gold mighteth beg for comparison’s taste?
Such righteous jealousy fit mere for the maid in the wakest of thy maternality blue.
Thou art always abrighter.

Shall I compare thee to the taste of butter?
Thou art always a sweeter sight; sweeter taste; sweeter touch.
For what canth butter compare to thy winds salted?
Breezes of milk and honey which kisth my tired, loving eyes, as I bid away the sun?

Perhaps thou mightst be held to the mere earthworm? An extension of thy will.
Thy gentle hands. Gardeners of thy Eden. Greeners of the dead and brown.
Ye soft escorts of thy exhausted children; guiding to thy womb; reclaiming our empty vessels in careful embrace when cometh our arrival home.

Alas, continue in such delusional pittings with what fine conscious, I cannot.
If thou beest compared to these prior, thou beest compared to thyself.
Thyself that be butter, earthworm and sun.
Thy maternality to every mater vixitum, and every patron of thy leaf and sky.
Thyself that be peasants of the sand and soil.
That be the tyrants.
That be their toys.
Thou art seen in thy saltwater Saharas,
Felt in thy grass and thy stone,
Heard in the sparrow. In the flicker of a fire drenched in music and dance.
In stories of love and soul.

Shath none dare compare themselves to thee.
Thou art our Gaea. The Earth Mother. Ki.

Summer, let me have Summer.

What once were the lush greens saturated in little stars now eclipse themselves in the spectacular distract of this new blooming fluorescence.

Why must one worth so of envy so be brief?
Brief too as any one leap of intoxic bliss before snuffed mercilessly by a gravity vengeance.

Now, I abandon myself.
An exhausted onlooker gone to capture the light, left now in the pitch and the cold,
Looking on as our fateful blooms crispen, shiver and die, leaving behind a disgorged skeleton;
It’s forked bones petrified lightning clacking amidst in my starved exhale.

Branches bare.
Branches of sorrowful recollection and bitter regret,
For this claim of springtime flowers was but a sly herald for my greenery deceased.

Summer, let me have Summer,
Though I dread it’s attention.
Such fresh green leaves would forever be spoiled with the poison memory of those flowers.
Of that conniving innocence.

Summer will never be enough.