Pisaries Creator

Like a giant air balloon, colorful on the outside,
spacious on the inside, nothing sinister in or out,
and here I am waiting to ascend.

There is no looking down, only open space above
and the mission in front, no tanks of helium,
no canisters of gas, only a propane tank.

Sorrow is a dirty word, brings pain to the gut,
clouds judgment high in the sky, and memories to clear
once more for good measure.

The large needle, sharp and metallic, is not
for my benefit when I fall out of the wicker basket 
with nothing for safety.

Like a falling mannequin, naked and exposed,
hard on the inside, hard out the outside,
feeling nothing but wind on my flesh. 

Gravity is equal to neglect, what falls down
does not get back up, broken bones,
stretched out veins, bladders filled too full.

There is no annoyance, everyone shuts up,
keeps up with no one, bury their problems under dirt
and mud when it rains.