the blur behind us

[ballassst]

everything i write feels like nonsense
like in every piece of sea-glass
that washes up on my shore
theres a dull pumpkin and a stop-watch
counting down the seconds before
each word written explodes like a smoke bomb
in my face.

it's only time that proves shelter
from the storm of my harsh radiation,
the shame that claims my name
like it claims women's identities.
a momentary mindful distance sometimes
is what i depend on;
a temporary bodily exit
until just the right feeling makes a lusty entrance
makes its own surprise appearance
like a mysterious flower
blossomed during the night
of my closed eyes.

it's that lag time between
moments of genius and the becoming
which too often rots in shame
in which too often we are trapped
from which we are periodically liberated
though only individually
just to be trapped again;
and so this twisting existence goes.

when pressed
we look like roses
bare thorns like delicate-fierce cat claws
draw blossoms from the red of our own blood 
lose petals like a chrysalis;
like we are constantly moving out;
away from the blur our own wings become behind us.

i am a bead of sweat swelling
from the soft touch of a rose;
every transformation's essence purges old walls
and frees itself
born of its own burning essence,
of those condensed wellsprings of rage.

yeah it's a tumultuous existence
the perpetual looking back
the rapid, constant decay
from beauty to shame and back again.

kinda makes you feel crazy
kinda drives you to madness
kinda paints you insane.

but in every present moment of epiphany
my life resembles something microcosmically like
the art a hungry caterpillar creates

all shiny colors and octagons;
a deep full spectrum of shades;
the entire span of light.