Shaving Cream

I hate shaving. That is my poetic
diary entry of the day, it seems.
Leave me be, face leaves, grass of my cheek plains.
I am not the mower you would have me
be. I do not reap or sow, only grow
and grow and grow and grow from nothingness,
and not the abstract nothingness, the word
on paper concept, but lack; growth from no,
growth unbidden, growth unwelcome, tangle
of wiry life from the void, a million
tiny razors slashing at kissed faces,
the stabbing towers of my vibrancy,
my black and red and blonde banner men spread
across the field of my chin waging war.

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