Is it your legs, or your heart?

My vision is so myopic

I cant really tell if

the pictures in my eyelids

fortell a past in which

I was far too weird

a present in which I suck

or a future in which I'm nothing

blathering about to the

shadows of my fortune

given to me by willful debtors

whose eloquence and skill with

the amathyst forges where

making oneself matter to

someone they really shouldnt

and culling my sentiment

for words I know not

the denotation and pretend

to feel connotation of colors

that in reality are simply

varying shades of grey

that create art with qualities

embalmed in all failures

yet are never seen

in this darkened gallery

opened by peals of laughter.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

I'm such a sucky poet. It saddens me so

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