Some things are just what they are.
Like a kick to the face.
A kick to the face...
is just a kick to the face.
Some things are much more.
Like going through a list,
of everyone I know,
and sending one message
to one person,
because only she
can clear up all that jungle
that has caught fire in my head.
But she
doesn't respond.
Now I'm stuck
with a thing.
I'm stuck
trying to rumble against
a waterfall in my face,
while the smoke in my ears
is clouding judgment
with mixed signals.
I wish at
the walls
that once grew flowers
like night might raise constellations.
And that wish kiss'd me
goodnight.
No one is going to rescue this kid,
no dreamer wants to
sleep with a guy who thinks his reflection
is schizophrenia.
I'm out of options,
and that mirror knows me well.
It sees right through my bravery,
makes my scar tissue itch.
It knows that I'm one heartbeat away,
from needing a miracle moment.
There's a world in there,
hiding in that glass.
That place hums only prison songs,
bidding on my execution,
harvesting havoc and swinging a toxic sentence.
That mirror is asking me to throw in the towel.
To let go,
and be a beautiful poet.
The incident will be confirmation,
I'll be knee deep in holy hell.
I wont have to deal
with the dents in my ventricles.
I wont have to hope high.
Finally, I'll be able to land.
Touch some gruesome ground
and spirit away that drunken sky.
I'll bury my hatchet
in a shallow grave on hallowed ground.
I'll say farewell to the irony in that iron blade.
It does not slip my mind
that I've rambled this champagne
into poetry.
This little doozy,
is just like a kick in the face.
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