The curtain is the humbug’s folly,
“you shouldn’t be doing something - if you have to hide it.”
Pretending to be something gross and Godly,
But hide, I did, and hide, I will no longer; not even a little bit.
lipstick rum wallow beat
Funday for a Sinner’s Dinner club
blue Sunday purple black
chocolate cherry gumdrop soul attack
a syrup treat, lies treatise, demise
Sun rays shine through a popsicle obsession
oral fixation mourning peach
midnight blossoms grow under my feet
A return to the reason and the rhyme,
when I have to hide my tin nuts and bolts.
My innards, giving you a sickly time,
fueling fluorescent anti-black magic basalt revolts.
Within me, I am a tormenting sea, full
of rage and ruptures like he
Without you, I am a cracked crystal, frail and regretful
drowning in the sorrow like she
Within me, without you, I am none of that
I am none of them; I am all of me.
A boozer, loser, stoner, loner, mourner of a brat
full of pluck, spunk, righteous rage; perpetually gutsy.
Like aerial primates, I am much too bold,
so my dusk blue stardust mask stays on,
because I belong to a world of a crushed, broken mold.
I’ll be under here until the utopia-rise, an emerald green dawn.