the elephant in the room
is that your mother is dying
from a cancer

and your heart follows the
rain,
down through the gutters

apathy is a warm blanket,
your body is a cold machine,
all around you a million shades
of grey paint pop-culture
pictures that disappear when
you look at them like
all of the fake-stars in the sky

there are few words left for what you see

you put your art in a grey can
and give it a stupid name;
this survival is an encouraged
and repugnant greed
and is the cancer itself

beauty is right behind that elephant.

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