Pictures (poem)

Asking and waiting; difficult questions and skewed mirrors             
presented images of me that were never quite right; always fragile, always close to shattering.
      
Marks on arms forever there and pictures of you forever             
imprinted on a mind so close to insanity but closer to utopia; same thing when you think about it.          
          
Beautiful stars show me from what we are made and I am        
in a poetic slum where words are stolen and shit smells of flowers.          
             
Glazed eyes reflect suburban sunsets and beautiful stories yet to be told;        
      
Butterfly kisses and wet underwear confirmation; playground bully and bedroom princess; salvage what you can and wake upon brilliant days and try again; strive to be the worst because there is soul in failure.   
          
Urinate in a font and shed tears for hair you will never stroke; see her neck and cry a bucket load...             
             
You are a hidden gem amongst the multitude of afflicted ordinary;       
crunch on a tasteless salad because the Government told you too   
and if your shit comes out green then blame it on the boogie.       
       
Kitchen sinks were never designed for doing the dishes; what a ridiculous notion; they act as a metaphor for dissatisfied couples;  
   
Fairy Liquid sex and occasional spilt wine; letters never sent to friends who lay dormant.       
       
English rose has been replaced by the she man.          
             
I have never been a pretty boy but my path has been more exciting than the blessed.     
 
My fucks achieved with hard work and musing; a well earned cum load feels better than the instant gratification of a Friday night take away.
 
Button pushing is my speciality; I know the route to all that is wrong but oh so right.
 
Class war in the bedroom never dragged me down but her knickers are up and
down like the dow jones. Instability is my kind of economy.           
             
Asking and waiting; difficult questions and skewed mirrors  
presented images of me that were never quite right, always fragile  
always close to shattering.

Marks on arms  forever there and pictures of you forever imprinted on  
a mind so close to insanity but closer to utopia..
 
..same thing when you think about it.             
             
 Danski (c) 2010       (Danski is the pen name of Tim Roberts)