Thursday, May 2, 2013

wrong house

shades of grey, says the stormy morning light to my glass head
a PTSD kind of morning, chasing a gnawingly long night
laugh and cry and sing and dance in the pouring rain and swear to god not a drop of it is metaphorically
a plate of nachos that takes on the weight of a ship's anchor and sinks your only canoe
total metaphor
down the gutter rivers without a paddle, or god forbids it - a direction in hell
learning to curl my claws inward, bloody palms but no body count
well, there's always a body count
who are we talking about anyway?
lucy burrows i am here to tell you that your body pile is a violation of the HOA bylaws,
please remove the skeletons from your doorstep before we're forced to fine you for indecent exposure
in a bar
in a publically parked car
the stars in your eyes are setting fires in our own backyards
confidantes miles apart, might as well as well
take it all away, i don't want starts or skeletons, stars bars or cars clogging the gears of my opioid seesaw
joy is suspension, inertia, it holds you in place while the whole world moves, the whiplash coming back to life could snap necks
wrong move and youre dead
i never donate blood, but i give my time away until i'm a dizzy fade in a haze
stumble in and say, okay, whatever, and suchw
i can screw this all up on my own, tyvm

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