IMPLIED SECRETS:

Poetry slides an incisor

behind our addiction to living,

rips essence from its bones

and grinds us chunk to paste,

half sustenance,

the rest, waste.

Verses are beds for the senseless

masturbated to perfect sense.

Sentiments and sympathies

in micro-doses

of self-psychoanalytics

affixed to symptoms,

ticks, and epiphanies.

Come inside,

we have odes to sing. ***

These verses twist trauma and grief into self-loving peace, a therapy cushion of words and doodle artwork. Come feel the dark so we can see the light again.