The Artist’s Luxury

Thoughts and impressions sit
on my lips;
a white painful blister that’ll never pop,
giving satisfaction like a zit,
but only turn into a gothic sore.
A disappointment.

I roll my tongue over the
extravagant epiphany
that has manifested as a scabby, deformed
version of the golden eternal inspiration.
This isn't the garden of Eden I walked
barefoot through in my imagination…

Instead, I duck my head and wear sunglasses.
I’m afraid they’ll cringe, or laugh, or worse -
Cover their children’s eyes while they tisk, tisk.
“if you could only see what I saw…”