- 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?