Before I write
about petty-safe dreams,
I'd like to make a call out
to the greasy hair
that screams.
From every body ailment,
comes missing
such and such.
Maybe, or maybe not.
Homework creeps
into my spine
made of steel and blinks and winks,
shrinks
off of it on its own
failed appeal.
Do I write on both sides to save paper?
Or just become a paid leper
upon the cyst
the flaming truth upon my head.
Find with harmony,
not dread.
But itches
do not increase
the talent, and wanting
and snot collecting in clumps
inside my open nose holes.
This writing
seems so smooth,
I can't believe
I'm ruining it
in any way I choose.
It's just that a messy, filthy room
can't seem to clean itself,
without my help.
So I wallow
in and out of responsibility,
while writing down
my dreams to be.
And the pen
is nicely hard
to pull the strings of curtains,
as they unravel.
As the chapped ridges of my vessel
break off, and are rubbed raw,
then washed clean
with vapor salt.
Can I exalt the strenuous
fight within my fright
that will ignite
if I'm not too careful.
My time has come for me to make my life
seem great
and finish what has already been
started,
neglected,
put-off,
pushed away,
ignored,
not seen,
covered up,
and always still there
to sweep up
and carry
into a world of merry
undoing, and beginnings.
A breath in naught winnings.
To clean is my virtue,
is my path,
is my conscience.
To wean myself
off of procrastinator's cocktail,
and fling in some salt crystals
to heighten the senses
into thinking,
"My life best be served, so get up you lazy butt and do what you should do, until you do it, my gosh, we will never be through!"
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