“Prick”

Like the rose that is
born without stem,
I am captive to the wind.
Like the daughter
that goes unwed,
I am held to the wall
by your suspicions,
but I doubt you even
know me at all.
This preciousness
that few understand—
I tried drowning my world beneath it,
but like sunlight behind torrents of clouds,
my poetry scatters
and my artworks drip dry
until all that remains is one perfectly pasty canvas,
waiting for another to take my place
with the pen, or the paint, or the woman I disgrace.

narrative poem written on 09-25-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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