L.42

 

so there you are

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so there you are
still a thief
mercilessly, triumphantly
stealing other girls’ heart

while here i am
still a wreck
hating myself ever since
for letting my guard down
for letting you in.

i call myself an artist

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i call myself an artist
you ask me why
damnit
’cause i want it that way
for a reason, it’s enough

i can’t paint. or draw
i can’t act. or dance
i can’t sing. or play the piano
’cause my mind ain’t born for such things

but you know what i like?

rolling out a sheet of pure white paper
so large it can cover my own body
then smearing the contents of my head on it
this squishy-squashy mass
of constipated dreams. feelings. thoughts
and most of all – imagination
’till they can slither all over
shaping words and lines out of themselves

ta-da
the creation of what i call “poem”
ain’t that cool?
i like to be cool
cool is the new black

i am an artist. a mind artist. there’s only cloud in my head.

in what universe

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in what universe
rises the Sun from the west
fishes have wings
in the sea, birds build their nest?

in what universe
does the river flow upslope
fire is icy
the storm isn’t hard to cope?

in what universe
is lost love a pleasure
break-up a joy
pain a treasure?

in what universe
may i have you
again.

the dot

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two spaces
black and white
a dot
in the middle
gray
me

i walk to black
yet
i am not black
i walk to white
yet
i am not white

even gray
has its spectrum
now
am i
a darker gray
or
a lighter gray

i come apart
and just carry on
rolling
back and forth
to nowhere

 

the dot
wishes for a crack
between
black and white
to jump in
and
v…a…n…i…s…h…