“death
is not the result of excess
death
is the result of being born.
birth
has a 100% mortality rate”
-
john young
i’m
coalescing with a constant complaint
oscillating
in the ovaries of my mind
with
poetry i paint
the
me you can never seem to find
a
year or so ago i wrote
about
a night of wandering wasted
relayed
how i passed a bar
making
last call
the
piano woman was singing
“hello”
by evanescence
how
when she hit the line
“don’t
try to fix me i’m not broken”
i
tilted a full bottle of whiskey
until
its entire contents
splashed
into my depths
then
stumbled off to an alley
where
my next memory
was
the sunlight of tomorrow
i’m
thinking of that night today
people
think i had lost my way
but
i feel more disjointed
in
this long stretch of sobriety
you
see, that was me
now
every day i get a slice
of
someone’s advice
while
i hold back the holler,
“i’m
not broken”
why
i’m sober i still haven’t figured out
i
lace the lingering with a layer of cigarettes
knowing
i’m the only one who sees
there
is nothing to see
there
is no decree
to
the way we should be
yet
everyone will assess upon my death
the
lifestyle is what killed me
not
comprehending i am free
make
firewood out of trees
i
distrust those who must
smell
the odor of orderliness
life
is an experience
and
when you no longer exist
you
will no longer experience
yet
you concoct the cocktail
of
a comet without a tail
it’s
an omen of what will prevail
it
is
and
then it isn’t
and
that’s all it ever was
and
one day the isn’t
is
all that will be
there
is no order to things
just
the graveyards of gravity
and
being me
is
the meaning to life
not
the me you need me to be
and
the fact my awareness
will
acquiesce when i am dead
is
something i am looking forward to
your
force impacts an unmovable object
and
i only object
to
your clearly defined lines
drawn
with vanishing ink
“you
just don’t get it” i think
you
talk, i blink
you
make my perceptual conceptions your cause
i
no longer consider
i
am not bitter
your
scriptures are not the word of god
because
there is no god
and
i can’t join in the fraud of your fraudulence
there
is no correct stance
within
a circumstance
where
you will never see
i
do not need to be or not be
you
just want the recompense of recognition
revered
for your wisdom
after
all you are on the side of right
eradicate
the blight
so
the harvest will be edible
give
your senses delight
you’re
hitting holes with a mallet
i
burrow deeper
where
the sounds of your strikes
echo
in the tunnels of my mind
the
sound of improvident effort
i
don’t need to be what you need me to be
your
arm will give out
before
you can guess from which hole
my
head will pop out
laughing
at your referendum
regulating
the game of life
you
aim at my aimlessness
i
light a smoke to see
which
way the wind blows
then
head in that direction
walk
amid the dissections
singing,
“don’t
try and fix me i’m not broken”
***
No comments:
Post a Comment