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Micropoetry: An overboiled eye, through reduction to thicken and intensify flavour. All of my words are my own.

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One night
643 days
ago means

nothing

What’s another 115 more?
raps the splintered hammer

Glinting sleeplessness,
floating or swimming?

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Crowed in scales, red-flecks of impact.
Scattered blood, sprinkled blisters.

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Coping poetry falls apart;
words crumble in bruises forming
that won’t blacken for days,
but know that they are coming—

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@Jo4dev I did. Would it be due to not giving full access to my data? I don’t feel comfortable handing out tracking data regarding health.

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rights & provisions are mixed behind
amendments stacked in agreement
as CAPITAL waives CAPACITY
until we “Accept”
All I want is acceptance.

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@Jo4dev Thank you #wysabuddies, this is hopeful. I considered it an issue, but accustomed to phoney corporate likes, assumed it would go unnoticed.

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Happy to all of your hallows’ eves, or
weeks, costumed at coffee shop tills.
This blank face is painted, too.

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Uh-oh!
Oh wysa
I know what you want to be
And to mean
But if Something
Seems wrong with
Our
Connection
I can’t retry.

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#MeToo https://t.co/RB6n7i7nct

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I can't guess what you look like.
If I had to sketch my accusations
in Win Lose or Draw, you'd be a
bluetooth headset with hands.

#npm17

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#MeToo https://t.co/MTxkQ7RX2m

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Pained windows and
Tethered balloons;
Swinging constraints or
Disastrous stillness.

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Dangling locks claim containment,
but what does one panel hold? Paint
peels, chips at ownership, better
reflecting the power of sun.

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A day's crinkled wrapping must feel soft
assured that she carries any gift, if
emblazoned with intention.

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I wrench the omen of throwing
Up sadness. One afternoon bite
Still scatters nothing across the floor.

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Upper eyeliner blocks shadow with shimmer. Midclass lashes curl bright disguise. Grey frames blanch minds away from the lowest hidden bars.

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Dustlines behind combines billow the fields
Flocks in flight see the path of each machine
Landmarking jetlines, widespread disperse

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Winnipeg walls are
all named as saintly halls.
I could read them more clearly with the
manual focus on our old, youthful lenses.

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A voice bled in ink, splayed cross a page.
Those fingers tap pace to navigate an abyss.
Paper books burn, digital drafts couldn't even echo.

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Scratch in illegible facsimile screams
I dial-up modular music in notes who's
full composition may never be realized

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darkness streams a vegas-matrix
till mainstream lip lines strip tight
in LEDs; cold, pursed thin.

#MentalHealthMatters #poempic #threelines

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Dig to trace blood under each nail,
my thumb, laced in a mud red crown.
#livetweetyourperiod