All of these words are molded into sarcastic hope
ALL of them
as the ego-centric morons manage to read their own lives
into anything
into everything
Where no meaning exists; something that is real
in black and white
must be stretched to fit
Significance and vanity breeds intolerance within
Just a small part of anger; a reflection, a sound
Which makes me write, (of course)
I wrote about old wallpaper, weed killer and empty garbage cans
I wrote about Heaven and Hell and all those places we can't talk about
I wrote about time spent in rooms that seemed to have no substance
I wrote about painting those rooms pale blue, like institutional cells, to heal my pain
I wrote about the windows I stared through to find answers that did not exist
I wrote about drinking liver salts to purge my sins as they taunted the back of my swollen throat
I wrote about being deaf; about not being able to hear those jibes and jaunts anymore (except for the echo that forever rebounds from the past)
I wrote about lunchtimes where I struggled to take even a mouthful of what I was being fed
I wrote about those times when I thought I would soon be dead, so I did not ready my shoes for the next day
I wrote about willing my soul to stay strapped inside it's heavy vessel; just until you had turned the corner, so I could breathe and let go
I wrote about all those canvases that I painted disappointment onto and then displayed them as a replacement for your face
When I thought of you; I poured all of these empty promises
onto sodden sheets of parchment
and dried them later on the fire; they scorched
and I crumbled the waste into dust
blurring edges, that I had long ago melted
in hopeless candle flames
Nothing is wrong; it will go away; disappear
Wallflower? How I long to be absent
What does that really tell you?
Think about it ...
Hard.
SRWB 2010
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