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Your poetry, dripping imagery, w

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off the page like my pipe’s smoke
just before I realized that living wasn’t
LIFE.
It wasn’t the tickle-my-thoughts
feeling rolling in my lungs
while retching up the want
to simply [********
and the pride that wouldn’t let me
do it sooner.
I wanted to float like rose petals
decorating your pen, perfuming the paper
with olden time’s hopes of candy-filled
eyes and bursting-open hearts.
But the bleeding weighed down my feather-self
as if someone was only chanting,
“Stiff as a board…”
Damnit I was!
I
**was
******solid.
And I realized
that that essence I spewed high
Was.Not.Life.


Life was my personality’s civil war,
contradicting itself mid-sentence--
before the words to form it
were ever thought. Life
was drinking down the lovehate
his presence ached.
It was the delirious hope that
tie-dyed daises would suddenly sprout
the world in glorious harmony for real;
the knowledge that was a child’s dream.

ButThatIsLife!

****************But
********************that
*************************is
**********************************************LIFE


So roll this psychedelic ink on paper
and tell me how good it feels.