The Rice Is Cooking On The Stove

Unpublished pieces

I have built my shrine to insecurity. 
Laced it with peppermint and spice, 
which is spinning sliding gasps of 
pleasure in the darkness of the nice. 
The rice is cooking on the stove. 
IT is almost ready. 
I litter my backyard with paper 
dolls and hope I have built my 
dreams into firm forms of putty. 
Slammed shut the eyes that maybe 
can never again open, 
forcing the coffee to grind 
within the mental holes of my 
sgtruggling, weary limbs. 
The ice is chopping in the freezer. 
The cold is almost over. 
I frost my cake with arsenic 
and promises. I have streamed 
a dream of countless eggs 
in a bottle, fearing that 
in the breaking, the rest of 
the glass would be shattered. 
I was filled with doubt and 
this somehow mattered despite 
the pencils sharpened easily 
in the light. 
The rice is done and perhaps 
so am I. 
I coat my face with paint of 
dungeon mentality. 

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