Incipient Digestion

there are poems I have written

that will never stain the internet,

never breathe air or see sun.

they are..

too personal, too much

of you, or don’t belong in plain view;

they exist in the wasteland

space of shit I wish

I had the gall

to reveal.

As much as I give you

I hide, yet

I linger with a smile

and reveal what’s true,

not everyone likes

to participate in the active

shitscape of the present. (me too).

sometimes we need an escape,

hatch to blast

off in

a pretty picture

to clutch on to.

our minds

will hold us down

say “hear us out” and

sting like a herd of hornets

making you want to

resurrect walls and seal up

air tight; launching into

a vacuum as vast as space,

a flock of what-ifs in their

natural habitat, a fight for the land

between what has been

and what is,

the view from above

is no longer crisp

as we rise into orbit

and launch into a between

state.

...

Limbo.

...

Stuck in the atmosphere,

akin to a mouse’s carcass

in full view through

lumpy snake skin,

our demise is incipient

as gases bubble and implode;

seeking out peace

as if it’s free, when we know

it’s not, just some

simple thought the universe

forgot while washing

her hair in the shower.

A great creator, but

not a great maintainer,

forgot to look at

what she already had

going. We are stuck in

the queue,

or maybe not even

that far through–

forever holding on

for one more hour.