If you don't know me (or pictures are worth 161 words)
I transition seamlessly
From buzzing dark rooms and champagne showers,
To lazy yellow sunlit champagne brunches.
I bear shiny labels like "Filthy Yuppie;"
"Hipster Scum;" live for filling empty boredom
With smooth, ice cold ethanol,
And jagged half-remembered conversations,
And the burney fiery vapor from whiskey scented kisses,
And overworked, overpriced red, bloody, meaty meals.
Poor substitutes for substance,
Like concept art for a life fulfilled,
But without the hours to make It, I steal.
I get the Sunday Scaries; feel
Cold fingers creep up my neck,
The fear that who I am,
Is who I post on Instagram.
Because pics or it didn't happen,
Pics shared in pretty square tiles on a white field;
Dull still life, filtered to colorful death,
Robbed of sweaty warmth and stinky breath.
This is what you see, but it’s too squeaky clean,
An advertisement pasted over the real and obscene:
All makeup; a life made of burying
The ugly, structural cement in-between.
@ellowrites @elloart @elloblog @ello @ellodesign @ellopoetry @apoem_4u
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