Nothing but the Stem

I painted him with six fingers
for reasons I can’t confess.
(It’s for the way oil chips off of glazed wood,
  sanded between thighs…)

I wish I never closed my eyes
to his– the greenest.

For his was the greediest
spirit
but iris’ overrule.

I saw somewhere,
the pastures that were gated
by moleskin notebooks.

Those were bound to never let me in…

But still, I listened.

Still I grazed along
landscapes, nestled in
shadows, collecting berries
to smear around my neck;
a sign of true courage,
of degradation,
manipulation,
mutilation.

Who wants a flushed flower
when no petals are left
for the picking?

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About Robyn

"If you haven't known insanity, you haven't lived."
This entry was posted in Other Trivial Pursuits, Recovery (USA) and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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