You cut beer cakes over my wrists, and
I wince - enchanted eyes, you watch my
artwork and it burns you, I hope that it
turns you away. This is a game.
I wonder why I am so childlike, ribbon-dancing
around your soap bubble and glass scar heart.
I paint trees in foam and write suicide notes
three days early. How could I expect success unless
I redirect your veins to you hands [just like mine]
and fight fire with fire and sin with sin?
People are brittle, but they always win.
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125,018 Literary Works • 672,861 Reviews
Your poem definitely exudes some surrealism. I find it quite odd-sounding, but that is indeed the nature of surrealist work. I'm not sure what else exactly to say about it. I like it though.