Life Can Lick My Lollipop

The disappointments of delusional cogs punch my gut; I reach to the edge of the ledge of my life; wedged in, there’s no more rock. Trying to let go of what I imagined life would be, the bleakness is blighted. A blank base bangs a big bone drum, raw to the core, to the door, to the floor, back to my cantankerous, cancerous inner war.

What is it now? What is life? It's nothing, but it is everything. I’ve nothing, but I have everything. I’m nothing, but I am everything. I plead and beg for knowledge: where are the answers, God? What is my truth? Where is your mercy? When will it crash through this big blue sky? Will it emerge through my all-seeing eye, with orgasms of words erupting through my very own worth?

Let my words light up a soul, let them see I have some innocence. Let them see the battle, the chore, to drag off the chains of strain. I own some blame. Let them see the chest filled with crushed tears from crushed years, pent-up pain, and a fucked-up brain.

My tired heart screams in my dreams, aching to be amicably seen. "Set me free, she weeps. Am I not valuable and victorious?" I write to paint the shards of the past, cracked and crumbled pieces from the blast. Embedded and buried into streets of sheets flapping with a solid beat.

Answers don’t come, and my questions have gone. I spent so much time nurturing rows and rows, in beds of posies, so that one day I will rest my stony heart in the shape of roses.

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