Diorama.

I count the many drawn-out days,

pass through this feebly clinging brain,

walk in the shine of a sun that is fake,

I exist in a time made of Paper Mache;

A tableau that depicts alternate ways,

the many varying twists and turns of my days,

the illusion of a normalcy frozen in place,

the gentlest wind blows the facade away;

the wheeling of paper-thin figures that blow,

from the set of this warm and fuzzy side-show,

the diorama scene that rips, and tears and folds,

beneath my fingertips as I fight to keep my hold;

the pieces burn and sizzle in my palm as hot as coal.

 

Buried.

It was just last week,
he claimed “now, more than before”…
that his heart stood true.

In reality,
there’s me, and at least one more…
what am I to do?

Unsurprisingly,
all the drama is a bore…
unbecoming, too.

So don’t tread on me,
you are not a King, anymore…
I’d have followed you.

It hurts me to think,
of the dreams of mine and yours…
buried in our youth.

Now – decidedly,
it’s time to let those dreams go…
and sleep with the truth.

No Exception.

I guess you’d expect I might,
be either shocked or surprised,
after being shown the hazy light,
by someone hidden in all those lies,
and – no thanks to you, Dude,
she just now told me the truth,
you somehow failed to mention how,
you’ve got someone speaking for you,
and so, unsurprisingly once again,
another one fails to be “the exception”,
go on now, go take your place in line,
in the long chain-gang with the rest of them,
the only thing that surprises my fade,
is the reminder of being in the seventh grade,
your girl’s making phone calls you shoulda made,
trying to paint over the big picture you’ve displayed.