Tues. Blues

I feel good
as I should
don’t want to be
down
on your paper tears

your clumsy crown

your folded fortune
teller

telling me
what I do not
want to hear

as my convictions
flutter in the wind
like the pages
of your journal

dog-eared
& X’ed out
unrecognizable

I feel on the edge
as if I may disappear
on any given Tuesday

I feel impossible
light as a feather
from a stolen angel’s wing

I feel invisible
a speck of dust
in the corner
of your tear duct

I feel disregard
recklessly
careening
down life’s road

don’t want to be
down
on your powdered clown

your upside down

soapbox depravity

your folded paper crown
& flimsy stars

I feel good
far too good for a Tuesday

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