Poetry

A brand new landscape
so new it glistens
sharp points emerge in our
boxed up existence
locked in for a creator
imitating an amphitheatre
to no noise
yet still poised and primed
for exploit to find us
waiting
64 is a magical number
A wonder as he grabs for another
Because
The last 3 broke
Shoved back and choked into
Hues sorted
a box of like colors
he’ll resharpen the others
because
how can a picture be
pretty without them?
How can his picture be anything
But black and white?
And yes
Women are just like crayons
Used up and worn down
Crammed in
Used found in
Recreation
4 down 60 to go
Trod on, melted, used
He chewed one I cant even fix
She’s gone
One grand exit to devastation
one moments hesitation of a young hand
Longing for his recreation
A pretty picture
Beautiful mixture of hues
Boxed up or locked up for his use
A fixture
Or with out
There’s no pretty
No creation
No fucking picture