Out in the Cold

I sit at the bottom of the rope again,
eager to find the sturdiest strand
or maybe ask the ones who’ve left for a prop
because what’s the big deal if I drop?

I continue to strain every muscle,
grasping into dead air—
between me and all who has quit
searching for an embarrassment to fit.

I’ve tried them all on,
wasted months and years
trying to find an face ugly enough
for a grave that won’t be strong enough.

Either I’ll bask in the last patient few
or take the option to speed off,
stop reaching for an impossible climb,
and pivot my feet for a better rhyme.

I’ll let those ones dissipate,
grab on a little less
and learn how to let things fold
as its fate pushing me into another mold.

Afflicted

i curse whatever poison causes this,
i scorn the ceiling as if the finger shouldn’t point at me—
because its easier to deal with that direction
since that culprit has no resurrection.

they’ve gone to haunted ground,
black and pure as the devil,
warranting a revolution from what started as sane
and nothing but blue comes from this game.

and once again I am the victim,
i am the one who throws a tantrum and cries ‘boo hoo’—
the one who has nothing but a story
for an excuse that will never hold glory.

i’ll tell myself I’m the one dealing with the absence of love,
the loss of a ‘good thing’ that never gets better,
the one who knows how the sound of death vibrates
so why wouldn’t I retreat and castrate?

damn you for digging the hole,
for meeting me at all—
i could still be the child I once was,
living with love in my heart
where you and I never start.

poor, poor me who witnessed it all,
but never quite ‘got over’ that call—
because after a simple savor of that blend,
my tongue sweats for the search to end.

i ravish the idea of pinching the dream,
or reveling in the cause granting me steel—
but either way my brain keeps the fog close
and my heart’s desires merely continue to pose.