Jagged words rip across the plains of our solidarity
The operatic tea kettle is singing again
Wondering where have you gone
Funny how your hip bone is connected to my pelvic bone
My pelvic bone is connected to your passion
Your passion is connected to my touch
My touch is connected to your breath
Your breath is connected to my soul
And my soul refuses to exhale when you are not here
Sanity won’t come out to play
In my colorless garden
The sunflowers have closed up shop
On strike until your return
The cruel, hard ground will no longer receive my tears
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My wrinkles are all my own
Significant events recorded on a vinyl body
My song is all my own
Pain, joy, love, fear, anger, disappointment
Creators of the music
Words are my paintbrushes
Artists’ tools not required
Only preferred
Phrases strung together reflect the colors of infinity
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No longer do your eyes
reflect back the beauty of my soul
They are covered with the mud
slung during our many dirty fights
Bullets fly out of mouths
Do we not see the damage
inflicted by our cruelty
I call 911
Busy signal
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Something is happening
I fear I no longer fit into this life
too small, constricting
Yet worn and familiar
Lying on a couch of complacency
Naked but for my mask of mediocrity
Imposter, no
Paradox, possibly
Soul, starved from malnutrition
Searching to find what it craves
Eyes covered with mud that splashed up
As I had my head down
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