Feeling The Fickle Fake Funny Femme Fatal

Skin lathered oil lubricates softly, in a

Rain shattered mind collapsing, under

Rocks activating dim China light.
Individual

Separation provides meaning, and sits awake with

Caffeine ghosts present to trailer park memories. To

Cut the luck struggling to become is to be pure in humid
Battles against being alone, undone. No light

Traces soft insight. Talking lips murmuring madness away.
Bed rides engaging bad days, forcing to stay. Honesty
Gleams in the spot light exposing all accompanied.

In the few lives that I cry, genuine eyes blink in a
Tension alive with guilt and indecision. There, is a
Throat that swallows truth massaging my heart through

Exhaust and partial romance. I cannot fix inability,

Only smile upon you all that have not failed. Purpose
For the shape is where holes are dug into a stale,

Native shore, coating the fins of youth onto

My canvass of psychosis. Makeup runs erotic,
To the bottom of faith in church, to the bottom
Of my heart, escape attempted.

by Brian Anthony Hardie