Sharp bones
And acute angles
Is the woman who has no capability
To please
Eyeliner and purple lipstick
Is a mask,
A wall
That is rebuilt upon old ruins
As each new sun awakens and
Mournfully sees the world
That it is condemned to light
For twenty four hours
Of full ecstasy
And joy
And pain
And loneliness.
The aggressive pout,
The snarling smile
That the wicked soul
Is never seen without
Engraves wrinkles
Far more quickly
Than would any
Neutral, empty stare.
There are no scars from happiness
For there is nothing to gain from it,
No badge to be won
And no honor to be honored with.
Eyes that delve into
Unfulfilled chasms
Of happy want
And unaffected
Optimism
Are
Naught but
Empty jars that
Do not dream.
Dark alleyways are alight
With cool scents and dancing breeze-
A lonely soul curled up against
The crumbling wall of
The poverty and hurt
That so inspires
The artist who has no money for food
Dreams are falling fast
To meet the ground
And shatter
The mind that
Unconscious wisdom
Inspires….
Our every move
Reflects the hand-
We are, all of us,
Painting.
Master artisans-
Buzzing bees so enchanted
By our own features
That we are, all of us,
Painting our self portraits
With each motion and gesture
That our decadent, all knowing core
speaks.
We are writing our diaries
In song, in blood, in tears
And in laughter
We are ensconced
In our homemade immortality-
Carving our names into trees
And graffitiing secret messages
In library books
For our recycled souls to find,
And puzzle over in the centuries to come