The souls of my shoes
Maturely defined
Prematurely untied
Once accepting
Now regretting
Scuff marks in the dark
My shoe shine only hides what refuses to
be seen
Refusing to remain clean

Oh, how obscene

Fingers joined to my palms
Grasping skipping stones
cigarette butts
Continuously cracking
never relaxing
Each digit has a story to tell
The middle-minded spokesmen speak,
while the others remain silent

My phalangical warriors, of often offensive
speech

Eyes distracting
Now re-enacting
thoughts once left behind
Still, they're searching
Never resurfacing
from the depth they've created
Obscure waters be still
Self-hatred instilled
The pupil of my pupils

Blind The Kind Eye

Let there be
shoe shine for the sorry
soap, foaming for the loathing
spectacles for the spectacle
and a cradle for the unstable

Let there be
acceptance for my body.