Alice

circa 2004

am i that plain jane?
that self serving loathing sense of irony
that visits you nightly, to tuck you in.

like a warm liquid magma blanket
free from redemption
a thousand thread count by martha Stewart's hand
that is if she wasn’t stamping license plates.

so call me alice
and the cat will keep reminding me
i wouldn’t have come here if i wasn’t mad.

tumble down, fumble down
buttons on my jacket
so i can be comfortable in the mess
i have created for myself
to bad
could have made something beautiful.

so where do i stand?
never-land, wonderland
never wonder and just be land

and for normalcy i strive
but why?
i always felt that normal
was a washing machine cycle.
one that allots a lot of fabric softener.