How issues become flying pearls
issues:
There is wet lumpy cotton in my gut,
baggage that grows heavier
like appendage familiar, over time.
I find an emotional self within,
bound and gagged,
spent for lost,
in a vacant lot of no interest.
Some sort of crucifixion
as a delicacy remains.
It is smoke-cured with guilt
and laden with thick avoidance.
There is a sauce of self-disdains
tempting me with delight.
I am grinding my teeth
and my gums, as drivers,
are into it.
I am salivating opinions
mixed with bleeding accusations.
Spit or swallow are my self-defense.
I am a bulletin board brain
of third person messages.
My belly is a front-page format
as I am inwardly reciting these posts
from a tower of self-awareness
chastised with impersonalized agony.
There is a seamless fog
of time rolling in
over every issue in my story.
I am a secret garden alertness
of eavesdrops snuggled in.
I read from and keenly observe,
as a self-dialogue of silence
clearly pronounces
what will, in the end,
heal me in flight.
I am churning all this up
with attention as down strokes,
because yearning for the source
has given me wings
through a sky-fill of issues
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