Every victory is a tipped tank carving the shards of me with hard angles, my darn ankles roll like grandma’s head in pa’s stranglehold!
Trophy is gold. Hands are brown. Heart is black. I curse, it attacks, I pray, it distracts, I may have a way to unbraid all the tracks, send the train off the map, this pain isn’t gain it’s terrain on collapse!
My footing stays unsteady. Without the bottle in my fingers my arms start feelin heavy. I can’t escape from escapism because when you’re not sick there is no remedy. Oh jiminy. God forsaken brevity. I’d burn a cross on mount Olympus if it meant experiencing divine levity.
Han wasn’t the laser brain. That goblin was me. Lightsaber straight through the center of my cranium. Severed identity. I’m sorry Carrie. I keep feeling like I’m betraying your legacy. What am I supposed to do when doing right and doing wrong are still being true to me?
TD Jakes said that being famous is the side effect of being effective… like a sycamore searching for sustenance in asgaard- I’m not sure where that leaves me. Honesty is the best policy nobody wants to cash in on. Poets are really practicing politicians posing as paupers and players of God’s midnight song, but late in the midnight hour all the magic of facade is gone.
Too many nights alone. Creating fragmented memories and calling them poems. The sound in the forest that nobody hears is the melodic tone on which my life steers. There’s no drop of golden sun for thirst of female deer, just West coast homeless probes in an autotuned tunic. I guess every superhero needs his theme music.
But my theme is red light district. Look around. I blew it. And that line might have gone too far, but when you’re the only friend equipped to go the extra mile, you realize…
Most of your life will be dark patches of moonlight. Without even an echo to find your way home.