Tuesday, 1 May 2018

The sky coloured balloon and the dame with armor fashioned from Damascan daggers

Sometimes I am hurt
my lip caught on the jagged
tip of an inflexion,
I'm sensitive.. irritable..

Othertimes it's by a selfish elbow

And thats okay
we all can have a day
where we are brave
but shy away from
our demons
lost in our inner maelstroms

but to softly whisper out the pain
to deflate the tension,
urging you that I am not okay

that just maybe you werent really being that fair
just.. maybe? or simply that something is wrong?

but then..
.. to be ignored
to be invisible
to be a balloon the colour of the sky

i am not invisible
i am not a balloon
i am not dust to be dusted from a shoulder, or a thigh

so I cry out.
im angry now
im a bit loud now, im being ignored
im redder than the cheeks of a baboon

an iron gauntlet covers my mouth
"you are being rude,
this conversation is over"
you inform me.

I gather my wits
how dare she?
ignore me, dismiss me

i could roll over, like a soft bellied fish,
surrendering to the falling anchor
to be shaped like hot
(but malleable)
upon the coldest of anvils

instead a spark flies
a singular point of laser-hot focus
the red cape that angers the bull

i am scorned
my feelings are shorn
obstinate or not
you will know my mind

so i spill it - or better said
lava spills from me
in great spurts and spouts

an island bubbles up from the depths
the dame with armor fashioned from damascan daggers
trembles.. then staggers

as she falls to one knee
her visor falls to the ground
her eyes are teary
"you've hurt me"

its easy now to see,
as the steam blows out to sea
the laser didnt guide my mind

it guided a missile of a kind
and everything is smithereens

and the point i was trying to make
lies obscured by smoke
billowing in its wake

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