Bearded Baby Cockroach in a Skirt To Land on Moon

I wish we were the ant, but we are the cockroach, scurrying, and furtive, resilient, and adapting, watching out for the shoe of fate that threatens to squash us out of existence.
We are bearded baby cockroaches in skirts who get kicked in the pants to build our characters.
We take a licking and keep on ticking until our final shoe-down.
Unfortunately kicks in the pants often leave splinters, impossible to reach being in one's own derriere.
Then you must ask for help and it is a bit embarrassing. Or you don't have your splinters doctored and they fester and block you from your goals.
I believe that through the kindness of friends, family and strangers, I have been relieved of all my bloody splinters from the past, and now I can move along.
I predict there will be great changes in my life in the coming year, good things, exciting things, fun things. I see it coming like the rumble of thunder.

Corsets and Cockroaches

Law is a too tight corset, oozing with our muffin tops.
Try to throw it away, and you are clothed with chains.
Wear it, pretending ti fits and you are a sheep among crowing, cowed sheep in lumpy, bumpy clothes, adoring and praising the emperor for his inspired lumpy, bumpy attire.
Cinched tight, the corset pleases, giving us sleek, hourglass curves, hiding our greed and excess, our open sores, our wastelands, our gasping breath..
Cinched tightly in corsets we dance until dawn, such pretty pretty dancing. The children have all gone to bed.
Many were the ones to help you into your finery, your too tight corset.
When the music stops , you are alone,  afraid .
The corset has grown into your flesh.
A cockroach crawls out of your bosom and laughs.
You pray for angels with scissors... or not.
Just as often we give our cockroaches pretty corsets and pretty names and keep them as pretty pets. We whirl dreamily, reliving our dances 'til dawn, wearing our festering corsets like skin, dreaming of our next designer gown.