Black Wine Blood
Mirrors screaming within shadows,
exploding creativity from inside out,
atoms of colors echoing artist within,
cracks of existence paved over by cement,
black wine blood leaking from seeping hurt,
reflections bouncing the inside of me.
Visions of darkness reach tendrils to sky
but slick raincoats of my soul don’t
prevent the insistent drenching inside.
Mournful questions never answered,
living instruction manuals never heeded.
Death sleepwalks in procession toward me
in simmering stew of temper and ruin.
Pink sinews from aged time imprison me,
arteries of black blood drip upon face.
I face the squashed American dream
in barrenness of broken stones,
trampled bones flowing to oblivion,
a morbid home for unclear paths
bathing in gloom where it all began.
I yearn to bring the outside in
to tread in new footprints before
all hope is lost and I’m trapped
IN THE INSIDE!
Ground Control
The are no feelings in this place. They are kept outside the huge bay window near the.. part? It is hard to say if it would be the front yard, as I can't tell direction here anymore. Every day a new door finds its way to these walls.
When I close my eyes my mental walls are halls lined with them; doors of all sorts, with different knobs, and key holes, some hinged, others fringed with hippie beads (perhaps only when I'm stoned).
I can wander and roam for hours. In my younger youth (as 28 is still somewhat youth-ee I hope) I was prone to be alone a lot. It gave me time to plot paths and stashes of little known facts. A bunch of bullshit really, but then there was a period where some of the halls were just shadows and creepy tombs past any portal formed there in those outlets of this mental structure.
I had to bother myself to really getting around to replacing those light bulbs, and so with a little dusting and a trip to "lows" and back, I got some lights back on.
How ideal right?
I suppose it is how I deal, by making light of situations. Any paraphrasing I can construe breaks open latches and breaches rooms together. Merged in the spaces past all the faces of doors unlached, staring at me. Daring me to enter, my minds an adventure at all times, or one waiting to happen.
I can skip merrily about, and yes sometimes I'll stop by that HUGE bay window, and observe the front yard, but not so much when it's raining.
I sit there viewing my garden of feelings, planted out front for all to see. Sadly my thumb is not a green one but it still has grown some things (yeah it has weeds)
Yet, when shown in the right light, say dusk, or twilight, there is a real beauty to it, but these times are rare.
Plus I've too much to do in all of these rooms to spend too much of my time sitting there.
