Piano fingers, are
lobster claws.
A lazy cell
evolves.
in reverse.
Paintbrushes collecting dust
slump in tin cups
brown strips of rust
Camera lenses giving me the eye
wondering why
I won’t pick up the pen and paper.
or at least try.
what is a feeling.
internal hallucination
of a sensation
None of it is true.
Or maybe it is,
I don’t know.
But I used to be a writer.
A hero
A villain
a fighter
a loser
Someone.
But I would rather be nothing
no one
than something
incomplete.
The soil of defeat
in my eyes
in my face
in my mouth.
I can taste the bitter flesh
of Earth.
Disappointment
from my mother.
Tears from the compound eye.
Wondering why
why…
why.
*Image is not mine.
SAY IT. 