Inside Out ~ Maggie Lawson



I’m a casual observer

of this cannibalistic carnival

where we line up the bruised and broken

in the house of mirrors

just to mock the distortion

exaggerate the distinctions

of society’s abortions.

I’m watching humanity’s hangover;

a shit stain in a toilet bowl

of God’s golden palace

and I’m pounding on the glass

with bloody fists

and a soundless voice


“let me




whilst I run circles in my fishbowl

having yet to climb out

nor understanding

why I want to.

©All original work copyright Maggie Lawson 2018

Maggie L. chews crayons here: The Art of Chewing Crayons

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5 thoughts on “Inside Out ~ Maggie Lawson

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  1. Through what lens
    Do you see
    Those who you judge
    Dull and not worth remembering

    Whose eyes are those
    That look back at you
    From beneath your gaze

    They hold life
    And death
    The future
    Flows just as freely through them
    As it does from their tongue

    Through what lens
    Do others see you
    Those who judge you
    Dull and not worth remembering

    What claws
    Pick you apart
    And gauge your worth
    Based upon
    The size of your nose
    The color and number
    Of teeth in your mouth
    Of blemishes upon your skin

    Forget what you know
    Learn to see
    What is
    Rather than a projection
    Shadows on the wall
    Fun house interpretation
    Of what
    Could be
    Should be

    Are we but stones
    Tossed on the shores
    Over and over and over again
    By waves of what we cannot comprehend
    Softened, cradled by shoreline sifting
    Then trampled
    And placed in the pockets of small children
    To be brought back home
    Polished and magnified
    Then forgotten?

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I have my Mama’s eyes;
      see my lidless lustre lost
      to milky white
      nemetodes burrow and writhe
      skirting the periphery
      of that once blackbody
      distorting my reality
      to kaliedascopic visions
      and succinylcholine dreams:

      She was a generous woman;
      gifted me many fissures
      for my gold, on hold
      due to insuffincient funds,
      overdrawn, not destitute.

      I have my Mama’s history
      branded in my skin//sin upon sin
      She made a liar of slogans like
      “You can’t beat the real thing”
      with a single swing, cutting
      through soft slag;
      an earlier ‘gift’.

      I have my Mama’s words.
      want not; want different
      my cracked cup leaketh over
      puddling at my feet
      like sunshine
      when she answered
      my Que Sera Sera
      with monstrosity.
      Her words rang as a prophecy
      as children ran in horror
      afraid of catching my “disease”
      that lie became embedded
      as truth, a stain
      that still remains

      Mama gave me many things
      but I will make them mine.


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