the woes of artistry
never censor the dirty words.
unleash the violet memories of
your violent childhood:
lilac frocks and pomegranite seeds
and leftover boo-boos
because sometimes
daddy couldn't see you
past his pant leg,
albeit he stepped on you -
there, there, there -
the rainbow on your face,
your droopy eyes
and drop-kick nose,
dirty knees and dirty clothes.
don't let them tell you it's nonsense.
everything you're suffering
makes a damn good poet.
nothing beats therapy sessions
while you blush away the shame
and let your nightmares
die on your lips.
try not to let the dead things fester.
reap the fruits of your labor
and eat them for breakfast
with a shot of caffeine,
the driving force of your next masterpiece.
string letters into words,
i daresay the words of fallacy and hypocrisy,
words that stick to your skin
until your flesh is blistering and red
under the rusty head of the shower.
the tears that stream
onto the bathroom floor,
floods of filigreed frost,
are the ink of your next bestseller.