Masterpieces Poem by Glenn Fang

it begins with a blank canvas equivalent to one chance.
things happen, possibly the sky tries on a new colour
in hopes that superstition will conjure the rest.
only believe wholeheartedly in scepticism.
what is nonetheless unmistakable
is the characteristic stench of gunpowder
originating from internal battles.
perfumed wrists offer only brief respite.
leading to false exits and back
are distinct toe prints from tiptoeing
aka stealth being overtly proud
of itself, defeating its purpose.
amnesia was what you wished for,
the method was what you neglected to ask.
as a stop-gap, it's okay to run in small circles.
the collective embrace that's holding you together
will continue to do so, hands applying
constant pressure to areas of concern.
in spite of this, expect to eventually fall apart.
and if your blood doesn't glow in the dark
I won't know where it hurts.