- Poetry - Curtis Mayfield said, “If there’s a hell below
we’re all gonna go” And the whiskey burn slides down my throat, -upper body muscles too weak- -not enough traction for feet- unable to scramble up the walls of this glass and out of this hole Gin-saturated red-eyed dreams, too similar to pure kerosene are so ripe to ignite with the slightest heat -intellect vanishing fast- -soul inflamed, an oozing rash- striking matches and roman candles, yet expecting to get and stay clean Downing pills like Tic Tacs, an intentional mental lapse; fighting for basic coping skills that I lack. -stunted emotional growth- -searching in substance for hope- I, like an infant entertained by shiny things; a mind with one track Self-image and reality clash in the mirror, forced into the clear, substance enters to soothe the fear. -all systems on high alert- -efficiently rendered inert- Clawing my way out of this fleshy shell, mindlessness becomes dear Slink back in and shut the closet door. What am I good for? hatred at the sight of my shadow, the sound of my roar. -acceptance, a plea from within- -who I am is a sin?- Because what the hell will they say when I walk out the closet door? Spring 2016 |
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