This is my facade:
A creative distraction from 

the ways I am flawed.

I’m not owning up

to virtues of exchange–

I’m deluded in disarrangement.

I’m estranging while I’m estranged.

My blood, my tears,

my heart’s desire 

were trying for pipedreams

I can never acquire.

It’s a shame not having

the self-love to do

what’s right by others,

yet what’s right by you.

It’s agony to attempt escape

from nobility’s calling–

all wrapped in red tape.



​Nobility’s Calling

There is that character tree,

funky fonts of fabulous…
In drawers, 

I stash imperfect spirals–
sketchy, surreal interpretations

from subconscious soul.
Curvaceous quotations,

detailed extravagance–

   symptoms of my disease.
Splatters, smudges, 

depricating marks I didn’t intend.
Fingerprints that take away my value…
The frustration with potential,

manners, emotional sanctity…
I am the vestige of death.