Junk for Joy [God’s Spies in Voice of Gilded Constituents]

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Fear is not super great.

Something I write to on lonely nights,

Asking it to fill in blanks.

It’s not something

I rock back & forth to;

teeth holding handkerchief in hand.

I’m soaked in mucus & crying

like a caterpillar who awoke

minutes before wings burst forth

to break shell,

break form.

A gestation of thought,

They whisper, “I’m caught.”

For I am sulking in the cerebral fluid

of elastic musical surrendeous fertile descendants.

It’s boastful, is it?

And tribulous?

To coat my tendrils in spoken song?

To expect others to consider wrongs?

Their license plate’s speech

as “Do It Yourself”,

no one helps,

And I cry myself to the next level.

Where architecture allows love,

I place hope,

knowing reflections

change with the days.

Dismay is a placard

I hang above my mantle.

I worship its spirit,

before crashing to floor with rage.

I break its frame

and let the glass cut my feet.

The sole grows over its wounds,

thicker than before.

I allow it to become a part of me,

so I remember, remember

how it was to be alone

knocking gilded attempts

on closed doors

of my own hard shell.

— The welcome mat out front cheerfully chants,

“Home is where my dead skin peels to become dust

to be swept up and kept for spells.”

I grip needy afflictions,

to hear my hands on my knees;

femurs say composer is me.

And there is high pitch frequency

of assailants overhead.

The fear they project is

not something I prefer to write about,

fill in lines til trudge runneth over,

yet they speak so loud,

cracking skull of yolked shell,

hoping I can make sense of

shouts from their Hell.

In the distance,

My master commands,

“Heal, boy. Heal!”

#Poetry #PublishedAuthor #Fear #Joy

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