Small Talk and Evening Meals

My thoughts fly on paper planes
Somewhere between normal and
Insane, I walk the precipice in
Evening dress and spill wine like

Blood over the pirate’s chest
Full of plunder and lore, my
Heart beats a sore rhythm against
My rib-cage, there’s no one to

Demand to act your age when
You’re walking tightropes in your
Dreams waiting for the line to
Snap, you please boredom with

Small talk and smell salt in the
Air mingled with the scents they
Wear, perfume and notoriety,
You notice subtly, they do not

Smell of adventure, you knock
Chairs racing after little children
The only ones capable of seeing
The world you paint, the statues

You create from word alone and
They hang off of dropping letters
But will not read letters I write
The parents are frightened by such

Honesty surrounding my way of
Thinking, their view of me sinking,
Under cannon fire, my desire was
To light the bulb over their heads

But the glass shattered and they
Went to bed, shrinking words
Passing between as they recounted
Their day, deciding to forbid the

Play their children enjoyed and
Introduce them to more practical toys.

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