MONSTER

Can’t look.
Don’t recognise that barren crown.
Lipstick on a pig.
Line four of this unbosoming and brimming with blubber.
Can’t talk about this.

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AS SURE AS THE SUN SHALL RISE

An ocean of panic swells in my chest
As senses shudder into another day.
No calm before my storm;
Only perpetual tempest.
I dread these tides of confusion;
Predictable in their power,
But incalculable of depth
And — no oil to pour.

© Mel Lampro

EYEGLASS SKY

I am no stranger than the next person yet, I am far more flawed that the last. I experience no more, no less than any one of you; it is but a quarrel of proportions.

My sky is a lens that magnifies every moment into a monster; distortion thuds through my tongue and chokes the light into shards that bloody my sack-stitched mouth.

You only see the surface. Your view is the millpond that mirrors my eyeglass sky whilst I hide in plain sight, drowning beneath the unbroken surface.

This is about me.
It is not about you.
It is all about the dead-weight of me.
Me, myself and my eyeglass sky.

© Mel Lampro

STRANGE THING

I’m a musician; I’m a writer
I’ve been a lover and I’ve been a fighter
I’m a mother; I’m a cipher
I’m a wannabe cancer survivor
I’m as mad as the wind at night
My name means dark; my name means light
None of these things will ever define me
Yet they have shaped and re-aligned me
I’m a story-teller; I’m a changeling
I am me and that’s the strange thing

© Mel Lampro

CONCAVE

I’m an artist, a dreamer, a drifter, a slave
To the pressures that squeeze me until I’m concave
Like a mirror that flexes away from the light and
Only observes what is written at night.
I speak the language of whomever is nearest
My chameleon tongue chides the hearts that are dearest and
Closest to me yet, I cannot feel love.
It’s the stranger who weeps by my grave, my dove
It’s the stranger who weeps by my grave.

© Mel Lampro