My Love Lost Art

My Love Lost Art
I’m far from the state of euphoria.
My dream pebbles are crushed by boulders.
I am weakened by the visual memory of my lovers Victorian art.
I am trapped in my white padded box.
Hearing whispers of “she couldn’t cope I supposed”
I decided to write how I cope in the form of a sestina.

I am scratching until my fingers bleed trying to get out my mental box.
Suck thinking about crafting a watch made of razors to help me reach my state of euphoria.
That will speed up the recovery process I suppose.
Instead I decide to write how I think in the form of a sestina.
Popping bubbles of pain with warrants forced consumption of adoral boulders.
And I am painting a picture of my screams. I love art.

I decided to write what I see in the form of a sestina.
I see splattered smashed sausage spread generously on the wall is there idea of art.
The slowly walking zombies with feet heavier than boulders
Chatting about reaching their state of euphoria,
For they are able to survive in the airless box.
They have discovered a new way of breathing I suppose.

I can’t join them on the other side of euphoria.
My painting has yet to become fine art.
Maybe some time after I’m in a box
That’s when life is at its best I suppose.
I am capturing a picture of the effects of chased Tylenol with vodka in a sestina.
My health is crushed by dancing boulders.

I cant escape from my thoughts of ocean jumps with hands tied to boulders
So I am writing my thoughts in the form of a sestina.
Neck tied to the ceiling fan taking dives off of a big box,
That’s the last position I saw you in and it was as memorable as art.
Your thoughts are over, I suppose
Now you can send me letters from your euphoria

I scream from the pain of being crushed by loneliness’s boulder
So I tried to cope by writing you a letter in the form of a sestina.
Escape wasn’t meant for me I suppose
My naked body lies, cursing Pandora for opening that box.
But now I’m slowly reaching my euphoria
Memories burn in your mind like logs on an open fire: with pictures od blood splatters from bleeding ears, peeled off lips and scratched out eyes. I call it my Victorian art

Now go you damaged product and seek your state of euphoria
Create your own masterpiece of Victorian Art
And it will continue the cycle of death I suppose.