My Soul Itches

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My soul itches.

With the blatant magic of gluttony.

Lust with the absorbency of all the plagues wrapped up as, Christmas stuffs.

I am my own superstition.

Today, no belt worn.

Tomorrow, no hat.

The odds are all on the black sheep.

Never, once bitten, twice shy.

Over dramatic?

Well, maybe, the heart cannot go on into infinity…rent free.

Folksy, folks, say,

‘The moon is closest with thoughts such as these.’

The sun, the furthest, when love says,

just let it be.’

Masquerade and Escapades

Masquerade and Escapades

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What becomes of you my sweet

no more to,

white minstrel shows,

mad hatter dates,

escapades of middle of the road…friendly foes.

Mother’s little dysfunctional helper.

I ask again, what becomes of you my darling,

What becomes you my friend.

Nothing but knock off diamonds on the floor.

A salt and pepper princess looking to make sense

of a straight-jacket world.

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Daddy’s baby girl…no more shucking oysters for pearls.

It would seem a place-mat of sour grapes lay discarded on the floor,

and, the runt of the litter…abandoned at the front door.

 

I ask again,

what becomes of you my friend.

You are not what you once seemed.

What becomes you my friend

It would appear,

thin dimes and a poetic pauper’s dream.

 

...pain and pride cannot live in the same house.
…pain and pride cannot live in the same house.