To Be A Honeysuckle

Clingy dried blood attached to the distorted metal,

sobbing my nose for the redundant petite nonsense and youngsters in pink.

Fresh signs of society in constant organized recycled plastic bags

and eating out rainbows.

And the unattainable princess we learned to love from my recurrent theme 

is throwing her throne down from round trips and the jealous.

Woah me, the mys our short lived from fourteen pills

and jokes about my fourteen pills.

But toilet seats are home

and hospital beds are hotel rooms.

My blown out ear drums are still making beats to revive my generation.

Damn me to the flames of fear created by our fossil fuel.

Damn me to the golden gates created by our greedy antiques.

I am selfish, heartless.

The magnitude of crude thoughts I say and the words I think

are inspired soul based batter of working class hero’s judgement.

I am as much Pollock as I am Warhol.

I am as much Hemingway as I am Fitzgerald.

I am as much romance as I am a war story.

I toy the strings of puppets’ minds for self righteous clothing.

I bare down virgins to wit my no grit life,

just to say my teeth are cleaned by John the baptist.

I am nothing.

Nothing will be read as ground hitting as if I said words of love and the hopeful future.

Carrying no weight world blood, I am incoherent.

I am in the den of lioness paws to save once more from the thorn.

Just for knowledge of life to be a honeysuckle.

Though I am a begging bruster, bruising towards the trees of lost tales.

I am a waking feather missing my bird’s wing.