Ward 48

I want to Howl at the moon.
See the hotel turn into a demon.

Carefully crafted inlays of a pedantic, semantic, unromantic stanza come to life
With rosy cheeks and blue eyes I read what I want you to see.
I pretend to know and live a life.

Pretentious, vivacious and conscientious are all names for my muse.
She walks hallowed grounds as I frantically try to capture the already distilled rantings of whomever - truly - had her before.

I live second best at best.
I failed to perform for first chair.
I only follow and when I lead it's with all the qualities of a sycophant.
I am an imposter who raves her own inability into romantic, stale and overachieving verses containing nothing more than a wish for a life.

Dexamphetamine and decadence fueled nights painted by my ego
What used to be black and white are now all shades of the same

I retreat into her, I become her.
Regal and unfazed, she stands her ground.
She never says no, always yes.
I envy her while I try to hide her entropy as if it was something enlightened.

I am no platitude to or for you. My continued decline and descent into a room with everything securely fixed to a wall, nothing sharp, nothing that can form a knot, is.

That single green chair in front of a painting someone decided I deserve to have while I press a button to be led to the porcelain god. So I can not purge what they have so graciously given me.

The two men that so compassionately are there to witness me,
talk about their weekend without acknowledging my existence, without acknowledging my humanity. Without acknowledging that I am.

Afterwards they wrote: Non compliant.

Just two words.

Neither nor performed by me.



Obsessa
28 march 2021