Just An Outlet

You fuck her like your life source

is running on low

and leave her like you have somewhere to be. 

You hold her like you want 

to love her but 

there’s another lover you need to see. 

These Are Not Artists

Inside out. Smeared on walls, canvas, journals. A bloody piece of “art”. Not red but black and blue. Inconsistent and non-blandiloquent. Falling apart how snow falls from the sky, hitting the ground like tears running away from eyes. This is what happens when you ask someone else to fix you – they get bored and you look fun and here’s the thing. Here’s the thing. The things is, these people aren’t engineers. They are gamblers and prostitutes and homeless and they will use you, not build you up. You will not be featured in a gallery, just a grave. And this is incipient. The only fixing to be had are the patches in their own lives, the plug in the hole in the dam and all the pressure is on you. You are not a corner, not a game, not a home. You are used, blue, and black.