high-fructose-what-have-you

breathing sugar, well

it never seems like a good idea.

we were buried in it.

overwhelmingly,

devastating…

any idea I ever had

about anything along the lines

of things such as this

on and on the march goes

fist pumping like the Grand Marshall

and the beat carries through

passing into shades never reconciled

watercolour ponies and

pixies

and sunsets

and portraits & paintings that focus on

highlighting the differences between

portraits and

paintings…

paintings

(or was it portraits?)

of what I thought we could be…

too sweet:

to the point of the

bitter taste here on

my tongue–

deep in my lungs

growing faster and thickening

smothering everything else;

suffocation by pleasantries

and pageant smiles

and half waves

and smugness.

Walk to the end of the runway,

and please,

god, please…

don’t turn back around.