the woes of artistry

never censor the dirty words.

unleash the violet memories of

your violent childhood:

lilac frocks and pomegranite seeds

and leftover boo-boos

because sometimes 

daddy couldn't see you

past his pant leg, 

albeit he stepped on you -

there, there, there - 

the rainbow on your face,

your droopy eyes

and drop-kick nose,

dirty knees and dirty clothes.

don't let them tell you it's nonsense.

everything you're suffering

makes a damn good poet. 

nothing beats therapy sessions 

while you blush away the shame

and let your nightmares 

die on your lips.

try not to let the dead things fester.

reap the fruits of your labor

and eat them for breakfast

with a shot of caffeine,

the driving force of your next masterpiece.

string letters into words, 

i daresay the words of fallacy and hypocrisy,

words that stick to your skin

until your flesh is blistering and red

under the rusty head of the shower.

the tears that stream 

onto the bathroom floor,

floods of filigreed frost,

are the ink of your next bestseller.