It’s been a strange day,
her heart hurts mercifully,
conform her in vain.
Natasha is a bright dark enigma coated in black lipstick,
searing flesh scars this mastered mind of instance,
metamorphosing this child flower-power goth chick,
only real screams can elevate her spirit to reminisce.
She doesn’t live life like most people eat their dinner,
she eats all the bland stuff she doesn’t like first,
saving the best stuff for last and chews like a winner,
if she gets full first and hasn’t quenched her thirst,
like life it’s sometimes best to swallow like a sinner.
Her humor can become dark, gray and stoically grotesque,
she gets amazing things done when sleep doesn’t call,
her personal interests are somewhat disgusting at best,
time slips like a hot chain and helps brace her fall,
her music can echo pain that’s unimaginable to the rest,
you’ll rewind & play a thousand times just to hear it all.
She chooses all art in the absence of an abstract happiness,
insomnia shows up and crawls into her bed like an affliction,
she’s even considering getting a brand new big tattoo gun,
with bright red little dark epiphanies of a new-like addiction,
her goal is to feel pleasure, punish, stimulate and be numb,
full contact music with dancing and nature are her salvation,
her entrails sometimes derail with a psychosomatic sickness.
She has for two household friends a cute pair of Orb spiders,
watching family feud with no sound is strange and very awesome,
listening to counting bodies and considering the outsiders,
because she questions the teacher gives extra work for everyone,
with very slow yoga sessions and medical care providers,
her technicolor hair and mixture morality can’t be undone.
It’s a crime to deny your natural and energized creative spark,
imagine the walls peeling back and bleeding out everything gory,
that pet was a gift and instead you choose to spread the dark,
like a ghost lady trying to play jingle-bells with your story,
a life without art is empty, meaningless and perpetually stark.
Closing bookstores and empty libraries rob her of a learning spree,
she buys dusty old poetry books at thrift stores for their looks,
their old fashioned smell and the imagining of how it came to be,
she now also reads digital versions of her free favorite books.
Every day at noon,
tsunami air raid warning,
draw fuckin bunny.
dead beat poet 