Pajolo Cam

Of course I have my reservations;

Why, I am soft spoken—swimmingly (seemingly) golden.

It’s all controlled and monitored,

For I am violently hurting and desperate to express it, explain why.

I think my anger hovers over me like a fly I’m unaware of. Point it out and out of embarrassment, I’ll

attempt to

cleanse myself of the stench that attracts it.

Innocent bystander, you are, witness to my caged fury.

As an artist, my vulnerability is unintentional, scared of being seen unless it is entangled in convoluted detail.

The sun cannot control my tide, so I hide away—I say: “The daylight wraps a cast over me; come winter, I will thaw.”

For my hidden wild and aggression, dark is the imagination’s recess, for in light, it faces recession.

In a melting summer and wilting nature, there’s an urgency for creation.

So then, I emerge from my cocoon, furious and dancing in the moonlight. I’m effortlessly erratical and viciously grateful. The waves eventually calm.

I thought I caused destruction, but I found eroded mountains—in the morning after all that, I found my love, beginning to crawl.