It appears
people don't enjoy the beating of my heart,
but the rushing gush of dripping blood
through cuts,
through injuries
made by sharp sickles
cutting, shorting
every sensation
of pain.
Don't get me wrong.
I used to do my yard.
The "grass" grew from green
to yellow,
in weeks.
It grew like trees:
tall but weak; like puny, sickly
decrepit "trees"
that my lawnmower
couldn't beat,
kill.
So I cut:
the old, wilted
"grass"
with a sickle...
Yes,
With a sickle...
I cut, shorted
my pain
from seeing,
the green
drying, withering
away
as the passersby
slowly, one by one,
gathered
'round my yard
like the Ku Klux klan
I then knew
why a different color
grew so much
unwanted attention
because I was
like the yellow
in my yard.
