MOODSWINGS AND MUDSLIDES

The map is not the territory...unless 'shrooms are involved.

Darkest hours in the size of years—
Gospel on the radio,
Screeching out the Good Noose,
Which seems to be “I told you so,”
Assumptions and consuming fears…
Cut off, yet not cut loose.
There is dirt caked on my feet,
And the screams of a million unborn
Smeared across my filthy sheet.
Lovers send me photos like fresh porn.
Pieces of the puzzle, puzzling peace of mind…
I seethe, I seethe, I seethe…
As footsteps echo in my ears.
And at the end of every daily grind,
I’m only grinding teeth.

***

Drama Queen? Nay—Drama Coach!

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