Frame

This is no longer an art form

The way he grasps the hammer

With his callused hands

Hammering away at someone's

Insides.

Its makes a big bang

When the metal hits the ground

And it causes a stir

In my heart.

But not a jostle or a somersault or a freedom.

It doesn't even bury me or conjure up a distant feeling or memory or play toy or seriousness.



The ceiling is disgusting.



The light is fabricated.



The roaring trucks are angry.



These are all predictable things

Unwanted things.

Fleeting things.

Desperate.



I stretch for words that I do not know.

I play with thoughts that I can not see.


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