a window washer on the side of a skyscraper working for spare change as the occupant glare out at him as the squeegee squeaks

he is a trapeze artist so convincing scared to death trembles at the edge smiling with false bravado as his knees shake

in need of a puzzle solver as i fall apart someone good at jigsaws that can put me back together as i plead for assistance in whispers

i need a web weaver that can spin a net to catch me as i plummet head first into the crowd cheering for more and more blood or tears

i wonder at what point i get so caught up in the story that i forget which one of us is insane or worse are there even two of us

mutter a prayer to arachne in thanks for keeping this tattered bag of metaphors moving somewhat forward in one piece

i don’t feel very pretty today and that’s on me because i can see you are fucking perfection that catches between my ugly breaths

some days are great for writing even if it is stabbing yourself in the heart as run the jewels plays a little too loudly in the background

it’s all fiction anyway, right? feels awfully fucking real but that is likely just that ice serpent coiled in my chest pulsing to the bass

creating is self flaggelation that you have to hope gathers a crowd that enjoy hurting as much as you do as the shame of sharing grows

maybe i do it wrong

sometimes it hurts

madmen and poets are the exact same minus elegance of masking it through turn of phrase