Jambalaya

Part I

Spurts of sulfur,

I am so fortunate this is rare,

A helpless flutter,

No desire to aide it,

Only wallow is in the horizon,

As the day’s already turning,

No want for change,

Comfortable with this weight,

Until you miss Me,

What a mean thing to say,

If pure, you should have followed,

So I settle it as a shallow limb,

A feeble endeavor that bears a serrated fall,

Either I need you touching or I need to feel this alone,

The latter yields growth,

And honestly does not occur much anymore,

Inward nourishing questioning,

It is more powerful than before,

Juxtaposed to your fingertipped warmth,

I do not feel this enough,

A Stretch for my psyche,

Struggle for my character,

Exertion for my essence,

Proves to me the person I am,

Or at least will be.

Part II

Why do I have to know it all,

Punctuations are muted,

I do not want what I need

I want mistakes

I want lessons

I want keys

But I have none,

I have order,

I have borders,

I have a big fat rut,

Just in time for my day,

Just in time for unpreparedness,

I am low, even for Lo,

Why was there no one?

Is it me?

I don’t understand,

Are they not close enough to feel obligation?

Why does a birthday have to emboss that?

Is a taken woman unwanted goods?

Why is it always half?

Shoving all the unmerited pressure to the other,

Eventually leaving me with nothing

Thus the bottom,

Only then,

On a vivacious ascent,

Does one feel triumph again.

Part III

An empty shell, with a misleading reflection of wealth,

The opposite in your eyes, you strong soul,

But which is really more foolish?

Polar opposites now, but both shining cowardly white,

How did we let each other stray?

Now I am too tired to sleep,

Boom, why do they deadbolt the door?

Whether the median is silence or spikes,

It all just boils down to exile,

Just because I’m in misery,

I don’t beg for no sympathy,

From no one but Apple,

Whom never withholds a bright contrast,

Baby, you either have to be here or not at all,

Otherwise, it won’t be enough for me,

And you will get all of the fire,

Ha, I laugh, ‘cause it is no grassfire boy,

Mine run unfortunately root deep,

I’m back in Central, and you can’t read it,

Such a difficult woman I prove to be,

I just hope the daisies are bright enough for you.

Part IV

Ohh when I am weak,

All comes out of the shadows,

And I am left sitting there,

Waiting on an easy punch,

Well I am on the ground now,

With my dirt misread as freckles,

And my legs already giving up on me,

Just bring on the vultures already,

Artists prove to be most perilous,

Immortalizing emotions, allows excuse for anything,

Whether it is irony or symbolism as the intent,

All is fair, and all is thought,

In the beauty of pain,

Drunk of wallow, laboriously staggering to an end,

God, why won’t this close?

Shameful, yes, but I see the curtains falling early

What haven’t I said?

What have I buried so deep that I cannot unearth?

I must release you,

And sleep out my glory,

I drag my feet and pour another cup of tea,

You trust my words so much,

I don’t even honor them that,

Truly, jambalaya soup they are,

If repeated, may prove vigor,

Even if accidental,

For natural routes are the most satisfying,

Just as flowers,

I need to simplify,

Slow it down,

And listen for the bread crumbs…


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