Poezja

A candid confession from you, 
when your identity started protruding 
from innocent rage. 
You were accepting defeat 
without a fight. 
 
The lips tell the grief of human failure, 
your prudence propped up 
by Prozac. 
A beautiful collection of anxieties 
adorned on the shelf of life. 
 
A cruise in veins 
to dispel the high cholesterol 
dewy-eyed mirror 
and ambulating pain.