Glued to Blue

Won’t you free me?
Point out all the skipped spots,
where I missed my own cleaning.
Seems that every inch of rust shown,
has a mixed and misled meaning.
As if my flaws are cards drawn by counting.
Placed all too perfectly,
to keep my whiskered side pouncing.
Know I never aimed my angst at you.
I just lose the reins, and then the view.
From down here dear,
the sun, it shines askew.
The puddles prism,
and I’m glued to blue.
I drive forty five to fifty,
past the funeral museum.
So many solutions,
and even more masks,
too torn to clearly see them.
I’m a batter up with blind tries.
All battered up and primed to fry.
But, behind my bed of breading,
you’ll find dining flies.
Fed, full, and flooded with all my oily aspects.
I’m trouble,
trampling where green grass is kept.
All the angry anglers scream:
“Please swim ashore!”
Seems distraught dogs
ain’t what they came here for.
They fear I’ll spoil their spool with soreness,
collapse the cliff, or ignore the cornice.
Cuz my kind, we like to hoard our hornets.
Born to bore and never score,
any worm,
borne by hook or sore hands.
The kind I took teeth to,
too many times.
Till those fervent fingers,
became crushed and rusted tines.