Six in the Morning

A Poem by Margaret

You ever wake up after a long night of crying thinking "gee my life's a mess"? I tried to put that into poem form.

A solid black ball with wispy black smoke,
orbiting its dense core like starved vultures,
pushes against my sternum, bow of my boat.
I tie back my grease laden black hair,
And smear the black crust of aged mascara

A white spirit squirms on the end of my hair,
gripping on and puffing clouds by my head.
My white teeth flash a grin with good morning.
The whites of my eyes surpass my pupils,
like a heavy snow fall on hot pavement.

But the black ball is the bow of my boat,
steering me through turbulent dark waters.
Yet I pretend I'm a tropical cruise,
sailing through gentle wind and clear water,
guided by the white spirit on my hair.

I do not fret I will have much trouble,
concealing the wreck of my dicey ship.
No one can see through the puffy white clouds.
And no one will see through the ocean fog,
When I succumb to the current and sink.