Colors and songs
stop connecting
dinner plates.
There is no room
for nourishment
or meaning.
Forget dessert.
I will be there.
Let me dance naked.
I will be raw
and incorrect.
I am full of manic
mannerisms
and dramatic
gestures
that dance,
however desperately.
Tomorrow
I will edit
the imperfections.
Today,
let it be
in the uneaten peas
on a plate.
The errors
illustrate me.
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