Estranged...
Deranged...
My sanity dangles a little off to the left
like those brightly colored balls
that hang from the boughs of the evergreen
at Christmas...
Soft voices whimper in my mind.
Your answer is tight black
and holey...
Polyester therapy?
I will always lose the game
as long as you brandish your third world philosophy.
After all,
what do I know about tractors for sale and petty fights over staining ink?
I’d never sell my soul for a dollar...
but you traded yours for a bubble blowing pixie.
Shroud me in sterile white,
lay me in the tomb…
I need that three day vacation...
Because my dear…I’m two infinites, six years, five months, and one day
from being utterly tired of you.
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