26 and toxic, let my heart beat slow
and eyes hang heavy,
the night became the comfort.
Uncomfortable with the skin
So I grew into it.
Don’t knock it until you turn the knob and enter this room to
see through these windows.
the same ones where I watch 24 hours
pointed at me, feeling as a target waiting for practice.
Maybe today I’ll master the technique
of ricochet and bounce back to land on my feet;
the same feet that run marathons around idle minds.
Praying hands waiting for time,
yes then I’m just another pale face
fashioned with genes from my
Who knows what my sentences may
craft other than the crafter.
Crafted before my mind knew what a
gift was; outscoring the opposition in silence.
The mind is the new tyrant
while passion swims in the solute of profit,
the solution bearing violence.
After hours bars seap open
for hollow feelings to pour out,
and rooms feel with tears that don’t exist as of yet.
Both paths have carried burdens,
both candles burned.
Still I may be in love with the fact
that I need redemption
that I haven’t healed from open wounds.
This is Self sorrow for a self inflicted wound.
Sad rhythms played by my own drums;
now that’s a dangerous pattern,
a bridge burning by the second
saving self is home for the self righteous.
Self serving on plates of gluttony.
I never saw this in 26 frames,
pictured this a bit more perfect
A bit more personal,
Beyond money and lust.
Still I only place blame on the mirror.