So Like Pollock

The manic possession.      
Removed from everything around you.      
Fingers stained with obsession.      
Trying desperately to catch up with the truth.      
Is any of it real baby ?      
Any of the lines you decided to paint.      
The strokes of mad genius.      
And sweetest patches of ripped up pictures you chose to paste.  
Colors & words you used to erase my doubt & lay my heart to waste.      
   
So like Pollock in your movements.    
Your process.      
You live in the crazy places we can all go if we allow ourselves.      
Madness through method.      
The insanity of creative inception.      
The private world we build when we see faces everywhere.      
On everything.      
Even in a diagram of a plane.      
And then we break markers.      
Then we spit on our hands to mix the paint together.      
   
So like Pollock in our passion.      
Too much stuck in the balance between.      
Not enough reality on the surface.      
Far less fire than we need.    
Who takes the lead Jackson ?    
You or me.      
   
You’re so like Pollock on a page.      
He whispers sweetly.      
We’re the same.      
He says to calm my crazy.      
We’re just like Pollock together & alone.      
Meant to be this way.      
Like a human tornado.      
One I’d like to follow.      
Knowing the whole time the destruction to come.      
The whirlwind of narcissism on which we run.      
   
Splattered canvases left on the nightstand.      
Like torn bills for services rendered. Chaos dripping from your brow.      
Honey sweet whiskey on my lips.    
Drizzling sickness from our fingertips.      
Reminding me how...      
It was never meant to happen.      
And so it cannot be.      
Just like Pollock...    
You & me.      
     
3/12/15 For Despo