Squawking to the Plain

I wrote this based on my frustrations with the lack of understanding I was receiving for certain pieces of my writing.

Translucency unzipped
from broad to small, like leather.
Beat me with your carpet stick
so that I might look better.

A hog, complete with stuffed snout,
backside up, smoke seasons the
clock that ticks. Hungry civilians
still reaction; complete the apple in the mouth.

Ancient scabs resemble childhood:
The fine new angles of my face...
circumstance concedes me childlike-
on trial for a broken vase.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is
the never-changing tree? The
Peter Pan? The ageless queen?

Telepathy deliver me from reputation..
bird song mocking "modest" emotion
It's like squawking to the plain-
art does not communicate.