picture book

she has read my entire story, thumbed my pages while writing thoughts into the margins, trying to highlight the underdeveloped good points

the spine is cracked on this tale of woe, it is a story old as time, boy is born, is beaten, is broken, is left to his own literary devices as he stumbles through hell

but damnation is for the living, peace is for those pieces buried deep in dirt, the scattered remains all that remain of this one way journey

self portrayals with disapproving eyes follow as you walk down the dusty corridors deeper into my insanity, portraits of blank confusion scream loss

it’s too late for me, but you can find the emergency exit located between the third and forth rib, the faulty valve primed for expulsion with one sultry glance

you have read my every thought but i wrote the book of revelation while astride the pale horse, clutching the reins as i tried desperately to hold on

and lo, as i walk through the valley of blood stained porcelain, i shall fear no evil as each reflective surface has been covered by a funeral shroud

there is less to be seen, not more, this candy coated shell of ignorant mischief falls apart with every ragged breath, with every memory placed in the kiln

love is a butterfly pinned to the black construction paper backing with two large silver pins and the faint whiff of formaldehyde kisses on paper thin wings

pain is the glitter coated glue that holds it all together, in sloppy cursive it conveys a message of hopeless condemnation as it drips slowly over everything

i am a cautionary tale, to be whispered over campfires in the dead of night, a tall tale of depression and failure best accompanied by regret

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23 thoughts on “picture book

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