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Manicured Lawns

I am not impressed. Not impressed with the way your tongue moves, shifts vowels and constants together in a stinging way to reflect more vinegar than honey. Not impressed with bones of structure that God himself removed a rib to construct thee, but you don't fine my moves that Heavenly. Not all all moved. Captivated by goodbyes becoming more welcoming than hellos, and bitter sweets are accompanied by rum. And I'm numb. Surgically altered into slices and dices, how you expertly cared out the compassion and left the nothingness within me. Exalted. Never exalted. By pillars of upon pedastles that former lovers gave with ease, molehills become mountains from the fragment of small nonsensical things. I am not loved. Rabbits out the hat aren't your thing. Magic tricks aren't illusions so easily carved into truthful lips. He sways back and forth to falsify eyes where shadows are grasped by time instead of emotional movements. Grass is not greener. Never is. Maintenance requires manicured lawns of care, and sun shining where rain dwells there. So its become a rouse. Theatre. Scripted and conflicted. And all the world is a stage. Lights subdued in the company of eyes. Soon the velvet curtain falls, and all I have been told were lies. 

Tickets anyone?

I am not impressed.

-b.r.rivera

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