Blurry Outlines and Bad Words

I am caught in the teeth of the moderator,

Stuck between their molars and making the King of censorship

Chew on something they don't quite understand.

Is it twisted black metal coated in blood?

Or just rust glimmering in the moonlight, wet from rain?

Am I digging my nails into something that should be untouched?

Or is this just a happy little rhyme?

.

Who would ever know if I can't read the hieroglyphics myself?

The words drip, they pour, they run out of me

Without thought to their meanings or insinuations

But sometimes I look back and wonder

Where did they come from?

I have no recollection of these words, these stories, these bad dreams

But here they are, with my name slapped across them.

.

Maybe the moderators can taste the smoke of a fire I can't see.

Maybe they can feel the erratic pulse of my writing,

Hear the screaming souls of other worlds trapped in the bottle of my poems

Begging like a genie to be let free.

Maybe that's the thing to pull the trigger.

Maybe that's the reason so much slides through and lands in the ravine

Of my reader's soul.

.

It's all blurry outlines and bad words.

Misunderstandings and mist.

Everything is coated in the fog of relentless dreaming

And slathered in the slime of nightmares.

I'm pulling the gold teeth from another version of myself,

Melting her down into coins, and tossing them across the crowd

Gathered at my beheading.

.

I wonder if I'll remember those words

Or if they'll fall into the bucket with my blood.

I wonder if those will stick with some sort of finality

In my throat clogged with sorrow and chocolate

Or if everything will just slip away again.

I've eaten too many dandelions and they've all gone to seed.

And now I've got a head full of fuzz and blurred, bad words.