Trusting the Suspiciousness

I would be a flat backed liar if I said I don’t live it.
Oh, I live it, I just don’t – live it.
Words tumble here and there, crushed, sophisticated, hill-billied and blued.
Over, on top, below and sideways.
Still the truth, the drag along, won’t dare fall in that deep wet cavern of the skeletal closet.
Just shut its mouth for a change.
A thought, true or otherwise couldn’t grow a wit without this Midas touch.
Or at the very least, a taste of.
They don’t own me, not one follicle. No word or action will ever have that paperwork.
There will never be a seal that closed the deal nor a touched hand that shook in befuddled resignation.
I own this thing. That “mania” which studies your eye. Or vice versa.
This is not a child or dependent. It won’t wilt in the flames of learning to give in, to bow to the powers that think they be.
It will never be a negative or a positive. It needs no grade to pass muster.
It will neither out nor in-grow anything.
It will only be your first impression a million times over, maybe a million times more.
Meanings don’t hide here, they be what you see. They won’t prey on your blind side because a side swipe is incidental.
I live it alright, chained and ganged, bulls eyed in a future, cocooned by the webs of a past and spun by the hesitance of now.
It ain’t real. . . . For me.
I am branded and fenced by the frail human trait of denial.
So for looks and societal patterns I believe (suspiciously) they are merely,

Words on a page.

By: K. Mulroney

Trusting the Suspiciousness

K. Mulroney

Johnsburg, United States

  • Artist

Artist's Description

Free verse Poetry

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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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