Wheeling Weak Week: Day 7 of the Spectrum

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 From the dimensions of space-time we exist confined,
 gravity would crush us at the precipice of the hole we washed black and
  we colored our hearts before we existed at the point of stardom at all.

     Choking at the stronghold I had anything but a strong hold. I grasped what your fresh flesh offered and you tenderly touched mine. Caress is care and love and you feared me I bet. I hope you did with opposite opportunity.

     Some days I’d love for you to be hung up on the daily noose, my atrocities deemed justified, void of blank, but no, the Pensieve of silver lucidity would parry En Garde! of new catastrophes.
     In my future paintings I shrouded the currency of receptacle memories with shades of grey I may never retain coherently. Color absent ad infinitum yet, “it’s everywhere it’s in everything,” my lessons of loss from grief you committed in acts of the child’s annihilation. I was dead before I knew it was me.
     If I hurt you I’m sorry, you hurt me too. Passively unaggressive, let us recall the flood light released within, introduced to what gorge: I am unaware. But don’t fret precious, I’m still hear for the end(ing) and it’s Armageddon lying in wait by the dark.

     But… if you let him control me and I didn’t let him control me, we are all animals but some of us are more fucking equal than others and I’ve discovered my absolute opportunity at equality.
     Today the spectrum is problematic—the chasm is broken, twisted into a sickly grin of the dead old man and the estate sign is held for the state, I’ll hold the death banquet myself, in the motherfucking basement.
     The prism is shattered inside the worm hole—oh, there—no, it’s gone.

     Lost of desirable shape, I remain: colorful and loud and proud unmovable by propaganda, but my excitement isn’t guise for the actual gay. My faggotry is vengeful sweet nectar of something untouched and discovered by Monsters.

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