clowns last vison ( a poem to myself)

i write a poem for myself

and burn it before i read it,

i write a poem for you

another throwing star against the wall-

tears meet were pen runs out

a war zone of thought blurring feelings.

for when all is settled an oil spill remain-

what once lived here is gone

or is sleeping

what is now here is unsalvageable.

my soul vomit tongues

uttered only understood by some demonic entity

too busy to listen,

my dead eyelids whisper and fall silent

against this violin violence

a sax with strings attached-

yet sounds half life

is but a dead clown face painted

watching its last sun set

surrounded by children with pikes

jeering juggle again I dare ya.