I may not truly be
a psycho killer..
but at the very least
I am a psychological
thriller.

It takes a certain
neurospicy
flavor of brave..
to put
the whole extent
of all your ugliness
on public display.

some of it
I have exaggerated,
indeed..
the rest of it
is probably as bad
as it may seem.

but haven’t all of us
an ugly side?
an artist’s role
is merely but
to bring
this ugliness
into the public light.

perhaps
for some of us
my unsolicited
self-sacrifice..
my frank
and unapologetic
reputational
suicide..
might help confront
the ugly truths
that sit
within our own
profane and crooked
mind.

the ugly truths
that oh.. so.. well
we’ve learned to hide.
and yet.. whether
they’re visible or not
to others on the outside..
they always pull the strings
upon us.. from the inside.

for, mine art is naught
if not a crooked mirror..
of both The Poet,
who creates it,
and the reader.
the words I write,
before they are
observed,
are fully inert..

until in our mind’s eye
the image
they were dutifully crafted
to elicit
finally springs forth.
only by means
of interacting
with our mind..
is any meaning
or significance
to them assigned.

and so,
this psycho killer’s
axe..
is not quite literally
meant
for splitting open
Jills and Jacks..
it’s meant for
prying open
our heart’s
hidden truths..

and if we wish
to better understand
each other and ourselves..
it is a thankless labor
that somebody has to do
as well!
And for that purpose,
I’m the sacrificial lamb..
about as good a candidate
for public slaughter
as any of you..
and that, dear readers..
is The Poet’s
beautifully ugly
truth.