Gaping valleys,
Asylum-colored.

Spaced enough to
Let daytime prevail
And to let horrors imagine themselves
In the black lung membrane
Of 3 a.m.

The acrylic style that found a gap in my brave flavored fortune. Writing me off like a bad tattoo at 15. I found the ink left in your blood dripped house on the prairie. Discovered fossils of ancients. Left the air heavy around the place. Dusty shelves filled with eyes that have watched lives move around for years.

Discovery found in the cobwebs in the corner. All eyes on the show. The one on repeat in black an white. Playing static on hollow walls, Inner ears and plastic heart beats. Detected the frightened feelings inside the couch. The imbedded body parts left over time. Avoiding the obviously oblivious.

Cans line the walls of denial built on falsified rumors of comforted table cloths. Crock of **** that was. Crock pots are the best. Just let everything boil all day, then accept and devour. Heated heaven in a porcelain platter dished up by perfect palms pausing to elate you. Here have another one.

Avoidance techniques only hold their ground for so long. Winter will wander off and this ground you stand on will thaw. Those footprint will stick in the ground like the ink the typewriters would explode on papers untouched. Stuck. Leaving particles of life across the windowed season.

I spent the morning
Walking the city
Writing poetry
I just wish that one ******* thing
Didn't make me think
Of at least one of you
If not both
And that I didn't cry

I half wonder
If I should go to mass
I'm not catholic
But maybe I could find peace
in the timbre of the priests speech
Or in  traditions
That I don't know
I think I could cross my chest correctly
I think I could pass
Pretend I am not bitter
for a minute
Lay aside my heavy heart
And go to mass.

everything you told me
doesnt mean ****
when me and her
coexist