written by: Robbie Masso
The words to explain my thoughts –
the paint on my hands –
the photographs in black and white –
the collages that sent me to thrift shops –
the clothes that cover my scars –
all of it is seen by my mind’s eye,
but the images are blurry.
I think I got too comfortable,
Maybe I’ll go to New York.
Maybe I’ll eat paper in a forest.
Maybe I’ll spend a night in a whore’s bed.
Maybe I’ll go to more funerals.
The answers are in a funhouse
distorted by the mirrors.
Will I search for the answers
by going through the maze
like the gods before me –
or will I place blame to protect my fears
and die in the place I was born?
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