It’s A Huge Fuckin’ Oily Mess

these metaphors are thick coagulated oil, filled to bursting with shavings of metal, bits of finely chipped wood, shattered pieces of my soul, and somehow, with all of that, still pitch. still black.
I cannot say how I want to grab it in my hand
I can only see it in my minds eye, as if it were sitting on a disposable plate, and every time I go to scoop it up I am unable to get my fingers underneath the entire thing well enough to get a good hold. It slips back onto the plate, a sound of crashing metal and wood and soul,
I am left with only a small amount of residue where my endeavor once was,
an inky reminder of an attempt at understanding something that is within my grasp,
that ink,
I smear across a page,
that page, I give to you,
and I wish for you to somehow see the whole plate.

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