Whatever happened
to predictability?

Engulfed by the sea,
I was unable to make out

the tattered screams
piercing like dreams

the wall of identity.

All that confusion and hysteria
for fucking nothing.

The wisteria exploded
into purple fragments.

I was goaded back to sleep.
Deep rooted distress

creeping over the clover
fields of my childhood,

wild with white lit pain,
and a sprained kneecap.

Tree sap. Wrapped
in the sticky sugar

of the unyielding dark,
the mark of failure formed

on my neck, emotive wreck
that I am, and specks

of red flecked my skin
with not sadness,

but disappointment.
The sort of rash for which

no ointment exists,
you just deal with it

until one day, it reneges
on its promise

of constant harassment.
I tried to improve myself,

to be a better listener,
and pay closer attention

to the scenery,
but my obsession

with greenery
and dead poets saw

that my heart,
my lovesick heart,

was filled to the brim
with empty space.

-r. miller


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