Me: An Insurgent
Me: An Insurgent2 mins 24K 2 mins 24K
My therapist has long hair, sturdy and a
Kept face that
Education on graphite stones.
Her eyes are nylon against
Crude lipstick, forming arcs on
Door thresholds. Her head is a boulder,
Clambering to fit the attic window, fifty feet above, propelling outside.
She told that my face romanticized the
Brushwork of Rembrandt, I am not. No.
My temple is a
Julie garwood, stubbing at cigars and
Averting her eyes, branching 'em to
Gaze at Elizabeth, her eyes becoming
Casements barged open.
She told that I am hotel rooms stippled
Kisses & lambent
Icy purple lights, lined to form
A shape hard to recognize.
I am, she sighed, dusty phone booths
Seeking vengeance from unrequited
Lovers point &
"The Aeschylean Trilogy". But, nonetheless,
I am not a love story, the Goddess announced
My therapist says
That I am a carton of France tickets,
Romanticizing a place more than
A person, naming citadels after ex boyfriends,
Falling incessantly on electric wires.
I am not love, seared with quaint
I AM A SORRY AFTER MISTAKES;
REBEL AGAINST COUNTRY ATTACKS.
I'm not candle light dinner dates slouching against the lush meadow of pearl white jasmines,
Where my beau forgot to attach the tack.
I am the subdued swarm,
Slips of hospital bills & grocery bags,
Iron balconies, and
Heartbreaks in an oasis.
If you wrong me with Wordsworth, I can tell you
I AM AN INSURGENT AGAINST FALSE MUTINY.
I am not love
But filth inside Roman poetry.
My therapist mistook me as Juliet,
But I AM JANET JAGAN, fierce &
Slaughtering gauche stereotypes with grey guillotines, silk-ridden
Flowers with shrewd thorns
Dry mouth, leading