Suits of woe,
gowns of thick despair;
a crowd of desperation watches
stifled sickness in the air.
Envy and jealousy embrace,
flaunting oblivion, in sync;
a mirror image of pride
reflects in their limbs so-linked.
Resigned and victimized,
fawning and cringing;
we both become slaves;
strings on a plaything.
No one knows
or would like to admit,
the mysterious science of lies
that ends in collective benefit.
Some place like home.
I never beat my heels together
as viciously or as desperately
until a twister of lies landed,
plaguing our pattern of civility.
I never had the guts; the valor,
to ROAR what clangorously echoed
of your fake impression--your face!--
always having to take the highroad.
Friends were hard to come by
--I'm sure it wasn't you--
they were always too short, too weird, too loud--
and, of course, I was grotesque too.
The empty ventricle of aftershocks,
scraped heinously with a knife of lies,
peeling away a long-lost image
while the blood of yesterdays dries.
Tracks of ruby red, dripping with sin,
I've lost my way from golden hope
circling, disoriented, preoccupied,
searching for my curtain of cope.
The scarecrow of enlightenment;
Your wits are a joke; always unfair.
Stuffing straw too deep to appear
more than you publicly dare.
Call me a witch--
as you chase around the bee.
Wicked punch from the west!
No longer submissive, but deadly
You told me I was different;
that abode was no longer mine.
A control tactic; a tether; a weight;
but kinsfolk wasn't hard to find.
No longer a monkey on my back,
I departed, following the yellow ray
with heels cracked from hoping.
I'm leaving you behind... and that's okay.
There is no place like home.
This one is dedicated to my favorite photographer, Sue Conwell!
Photographs bubble up, overflow,
scratching away at the thoughts
stuck to the walls of my mind.
Cool memories wash over my feet
as I dance through the polaroids.
For old time's sake,
I throw in a Penny for my thoughts
and wish this nostalgia was in the past.
A shutter comes at the thought
of stopping my fingers over the glossy and matte
because cheese never made us smile
like dancing under the stars did.
It was never hard to focus
on your photogenic smile,
but these still-lifes sit in a shoebox;
a pipe-dream forgotten;
a reality never captured by lens.
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