the surging red rose anger smoothes through me and I feel uninvited to my own funeral. the sand was quick and unappetizing and I tried to shut my eyes from my own panic glass ceiling. I can think but only unofficially as a guard of the storm visions came sweeping up through the cracks in the stone floor that drips just twilight when you aren’t looking.
Attack the giver of blood that we were told was just wine with a bit of a human after taste. Don’t cross my bad day with your glossy sheen, your enemies are not mine to hunt down and eat for breakfast. I was tied to the ceiling fan and no one seemed to care to remember that my place was underground. I miss it there, the dim lighting and a cup of coffee to steady my senses.
Lift up the magnetism for an instant and you realize that I am just teething to scream out, to release some of the tension that pounded my head and gave me pain in my nightmares and travels to unique pleasures and circumstances. Villain of my mighty sword, I struck you down in forging a new mudslide through the desert. I distract myself from my own purpose though I can’t know where to go from here.
Temptation was my alley cat exterior. I was made for company of a darker side than you seemed to know even though you claim to know my insides caving in on walls of my room. I think you might’ve known me well in these times of crop circle deaths and skeleton tap dancing on the top of my head. Come from the closet and look my body up and down- with a smile, I exorcize you wide open so that you can see the moon soothing your burns and pressure points.
My mind was wild and ended up too much for the people who saw me in shopping malls and restaurants where I was only served water without a glass and a fake i.d. so that I could get into the party that I wasn’t invited to go to in the first place. I embodied the tortured spirit, the dying mythos of divinity. An art lost in the torrent of war and wind.
No psycho-bible bullshit can get me out of this hole in which I can only feel that there is ink drowning me in my own mind, over and over again until I am unconscious from this rape and take culture in which so many of us find it safe to hide.
My heart can’t be struck down, taken under to be alive for what you want or you need. No more unearthened secrets that taunt my psychic emotional despondence. Broken dove hanged as an example to other freedom winged mammals that death is coming faster for some then for others and I hate to watch the camera lense close. We give in with one last sigh and a wish that I had more morbid time to delve into the abyss that this world brings to my bedroom every morning.
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