Molecules for the Blacklight

This isn’t my pen,
someone stole my pencil,
My thoughts are caged
in empty milk cartons
ready to post
“wanted” pictures
made from trace.
Tattered and torn
half arsed ink stains
I write in vain.
The butler stole my
tea, gave me toast
buttered both sides
then dropped me
from the greatest height
My ego has a pain
My heart refuses
now to beat
My soul, deciding
it’s a game,
gave up trying
to be brave.
Reality is a blast
bound in kinky,
curly leather
straps, molecules
for the black light
and rancid eyes
watching,
waiting,
praying…
This isn’t my pen
sticky fingers
and licking tongues
toxify my ink
with fugu juice
injecting the heart
vain, hooked up
to the needle
dulling, nullifying,
I’ve sent her into excile
Coventry for lovers
abandoned my muse
to the dungeons
for her crimes
but the prissy little
bitch, took all
my fucking lines…
Now my ink is going limp
erectile dystunction
without the blue pill
I’m just another writer
stuck between the trees
with nothing to say
just words to up and kill….

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Pinterest