Responding to a Creepy Drawing From a Dream. 

 

One open-minded night, my once closed but now bead-ified eyes witnessed my doll-like twins:

One blonde-locked                                 Another ink-haired

One suckling sunlight                             Another bleeding shade

One singing within a tree                        Another slinking beside its dying branches

One glowing with growing red figs          Another husking with dirty dead chips

One with hotty pink rims                         Another with a sunken plummy mouth

One exerting                                           Another inverting.

My twins lived as opposites.
They even had conflicting skin.

 

But,
Despite their glaring anti-pairing demeanors,
They shared one scary feature.

 

Despite my eternal searching and gleaming,
I could not see one eye on either,

 

Which,

Unfortunately revealed to me
That they would never see
Their longing long-standing simple “middle” twin
Dreaming to be seen:

 

Me.

 

I zoomed to my

inside in-person non-Zoom

classroom on my

chunky clunky chalk-colored

scooter.

 

I slid by

stout, statued, age-stained

mainstays:

old beaten anti-vehicle beams,

cold boisterous annoying

 

benches,

and

tiny, pine-cony, seed

things.

 

My thin tired tires

slipped past temporary

vocal social locals

too,

 

but

 

I ignored all these things,

listening to the YouTube tunes pulsating

from my

crinkling dinky discount-rose

headphones.

 

I snuck onto the un-wide sidewalk and

tightened my chilly climate-killed grip. And as the

working waning paining

wind spindled, I realized

I wanted to rewind my ear-grinding minute-long lo-fi-song

one more time.

 

 

 

 

I Shaved Today.

 

I shaved today.

 

I like claiming

that a healthy

body doesn’t need

stylish Gen-Z hygiene.

But, honestly, I only skip shaving days

because I’m lazy.

 

I chose to shave today, though,

to save my girlfriend’s pretty lips

from kissing my prickly

cheese-grater face.

 

And as I slapped my mustache-spikes

with a used dollar-store blue razor stick,

I noticed several blonde-ish spots.

I’m a brunette by birth and famously

reject heretics who say my hair is black.

 

Yet, whenever I let my face grow,

it explodes with yellow shards.

I think my mom was blonde once.

They must come from her,

 

which partially makes me regret shaving.

But, I love my girlfriend more than her,

and I’m sure I’ll be lazy once more.

 

Yet, when I see those pokey specks again,

I’ll welcome them with a poet’s pen.

 

After all, no matter how much hate

my facial hairs take from razors

and today’s new fashion takes,

they always return in the end

and will until I’m dead.