Fred Aiken Writing

singing about silent abuse in the closet made of rubber

as all sound bounces through the vibration

and no one knows the pain of my depression as it sketches down

each vein

made out of thin thread poking through the skin

held tight over muscle bound to respect laws of physics

oppressed by the gravity crashing

always down

looking down

feeling down

alone and making up words to call my own,

with feelings I don’t know

remnants of a spine transplanted into a spineless amoeba

crawling through muck in the trash

while calling itself caviar

pretending to listen to the music of the world around itself

though knowing full well it doesn’t have earholes to create sound

I’ve given up trying to put up question marks

where they don’t belong,

or at the end of sentences that seem questionable to begin with,

though maybe it’s best not to ask the sort of questions that require

abstract art at the end,

with space in between,

silence among them,

creating a block towards an ever growing, expanding, and then retracting

horizon above the greens that mixes with the reds that mixes

with the yellows that mixes with the blues,

until it’s all one color floating who knows where

for who knows why,

though there I go again,

asking questions without answers begging for question marks in the end