Here, there, Gold, sequins

My hands float off my face

and light comes

in a stampede.

Not a celestial,

angelic light that

glows like a million pearls.

It is green

like old flesh taking its

time to say goodbye.

It swells and creeps

outward until the

emerald burn is all I can see.

Envy is cancer.

It starts with one black thought

that the jealous one attempts

to ignore, but then comes the

mutation, morbid yet

magnificent in its speed.

I am

a tumor

with legs.

Everyone else has

passion.

All these little

teenaged thespians and

masteful singers

radiate zest.

I like things.

Poetry, music,

film, psychology,

history. I like too

many damn things.

To have that 

deep passion for

every

thing

would destroy me.

My mind is a carousel that

runs on

mines of ampheta

and I

cannot

bear it.

Reviews

[zappy]

really nice poem i can really tell were this poem came from