Foreign Angles

Color climbs and rides my eyeballs.
I see black and blue straight through two phone calls.
After this, the color falls and drips
like my acrylics.
My ceiling sings a lonely song of morals, doctrines, rights and wrongs. The lyrics leak from every corner and dribble down along the foreign angles.

My floor aches and shakes and flails 
from every drop of paint and nails;
it has 
yet to 
scale out in detail; 
this female…. 

My pillows yawn and fall asleep, 
and as they sleep they dream of me
and as they dream, they sing something 
about you. 

The curtains kept my deepest secrets hidden. 
Well, of course, up to the point in which they didn’t.

“To the grave,” I said.  They didn’t listen. 

So now it goes: open, no, close.
Harder, no, don’t…
is there a f*****g difference? 
Those words will float forever in my cognition. 
And I know you know the code: 
‘Please stay, just go.’
Is it for my stomach? Is it for my throat? 
Well if I screamed yes instead of no 
would it have made a difference?