I am a poet.
One hundred oscillations before the glass breaks;
jealous fits of rage, the red flag raised.
Your detrimental reconstruction
passed through glass shards as they recombine
with adolescent pearls of wisdom.
Sophistication blooms where art meets literature,
in the underbelly.
With little kittens on hold,
perceived failures frozen in glass,
beneath the glass
of cell phones and laptop monitors.
Implications of sexual intercourse;
the fat nestled around our bones,
cascading like the two inoculated
vultures swimming inside my pools of
patterned chaotic spools of thought matter.