poem: “inside the outsider (on my own again)”

my ambitions are small things,
held and taken like pills. I am unstable,
crashing like clockwork;
I tell people it is for
the art, but I spend Monday nights alone:
the cats throwing
their faces at the well and laughinglaughing
at the way the skulls smear.
I have plans
I had plans

There are cities in the stars but I
will never see them
I am busy in hell,
pulling open my palms
painting the walls
making grandeur out of grandeur
out of shit.

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s