I am a rock. Leave it be.

It is life like leaded eyelids,
Smiled, smattered, smeared into place
some kind of art, I’m sure.
And superficial settings shining somehow,
Lakes just throwing the sun’s gifts
Back at me,
shameless.
Thankless.
Blameless.
It makes something about orange magnificence
And artificial pinks just throw me into a rage,
these days.

No. Not recently.
Always.

It is constant like the earth’s spinning,
Twirling me dizzier than that medication
was s u p p o s e d to.
And don’t they know that stability is my livelihood?

Don’t they know, I’m supposed to be stoic?
They suppose it, you know. It’s not just
an expression.

Stoically standing, statistically speaking,
is so startlingly strange –
Sporadic.
A singularity
Which must, which
Will wreak revenge, running
its course through imagined veins.
Vehemently venting in vain.
No, don’t imagine
you know
what it is to be supposed
a rock.