Stuck Trying (Rewrite)

I didn’t invite you to my kaleidoscope world,
but you entered through the front door,
black-eyed Susans in one hand,
with crystal champagne under your arm.
What was I destined to assume?

Change, you said, is a state of perseverance,
a solid maturity, a judicious investment
in grassy meadows and tomato sunsets.

An investment, you said.

You’ve changed. Yes, I have to agree.
At your finest: kind, warm, endearing.
Then you turn your caramel cheek
and I am suddenly trapped like a fly
against the wall, held down by stubborn
fingers, as you snarl, allude to sour trickery
and crimson lies disguised as ginger truths.
All untrue. I begin to scrutinize amidst
fragmented lines to expose the essence
of just one clear, crimson conclusion. Just one.
Is it foolish to canoe over raging waters
full of angry snakes and stingrays?

No, no, no. Yes.

In the end, I am stuck trying. Stuck. Trying.
I plod through sinking mud, plummeting
slowly. I am hopelessly stuck. Trying.
Trying to emancipate myself, purge
the brain of pretentious excuses
and condescending fantasies
of your life satiated. I may be the character
purely present, or some other tender
trainee could assume my maladroit position.
So I descend into treacherous quicksand
withering faster than a faded daisy
carelessly tossed in a dazzling vase
deplete of nourishing water.