To Whom it May Concern
I am consumed with blue-coated surface tension that
sways the sky into stoic oblivion. I am a mirror, reflecting
is not an attractive trait.
I don’t get paid to care.
l continue to hide behind bronze
The lost feelings trickling
hide in ribcaged shadows.
Between lines, there is no disgrace.
It could all very well be fake.
The veins in this body jumped at any opportunity
The pages filled with despondent thoughts wrung it all out;
Water dripping from a rag strung on a dirty clothesline.
How fucking lucky are you to be twice as alive?
Do you know how many people died last night?
Does the void still spill empty secrets on meek cotton thread?
The world continues to revolve,
billions bloom into a final sunrise.
There you are stoic, stubborn
A bottle in one hand, a righteous grip on the gun,
about the frightening nature of your own creations.