Prosperity in a Vacuum

They promised rags to riches in a series of bait and switches, but I fidgeted through their assertions. 

I was given purpose in the laziest sense, forging cheques of creativity to finance the mess they’d make in our names. 

I’m not insane, just 
a trainwreck; 

you’d not be 
incorrect to 
subtlely suggest

I’m slightly disconnected. 

I learned from the best, but it was never my interest at heart, elders requesting respect just to tear it apart. 

I’m not aloof, just 
not invested; 

prosperity in a vacuum comes in a million little mismatched parts. 

So I took all your chaos like crayons and coloured on your walls 

suicide pacts with blades of grass drawn throughout your halls, sun in scribbled orange and a red brick house

we should have sprawled inside, ourselves, held hands under candlelight and crawled across the carpet for more wine

but it’s full of stick figures with bad posture standing outside on alien-shaded lawns.

Waving at you and me, and I’m the neighbourhood vandal, the socks and sandles of flammable paint. 

Shake that spray can because feigned civility ain’t ever gonna pay off.

Paint the world 
jaundice in jest, 
coat of arms that attests to 
your brand of weird. 

All they 
have to fear is
weird itself.


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