It’s just the scale in me.
I’m a pure blood libra,
I’m not blind
I can see,
Exactly what’s going on around me.
Money, clothes, wealth
And unhealed wounds,
I’m goofy and bless.
I pick up anyone
And put my enemies
I am a libra.
I am the best
I couldn’t love you.
See the dark
Sincerity in my eyes.
Red drowned my heart
You knew saving me
Would be dangerous
From the very start.
You took no caution
Refused to yield to yellow
Off on green you went
Bull headed fellow.
Don’t dwell on us
You always did think too much
Tell my memories to relax at night
Mistakes always did keep me up
I try so hard to read signals.
But what is one to do, with a Libra?
So well managed,
Loved by everyone.
Your date of birth,
dictating your ease in conversation,
Making us fight for your love
or face remaining a mere strand of hair
trying to penetrate your thick skull
to get to your heart ,
disposable without noticeable change.
How does one win the love of a Libra?
Especially one with such jet black eyes,
And comfortable nature in any environment.
I cannot measure the diameter of your pupils,
cannot read your body language.
In so many ways, the only thing
keeping me from shedding from your head
is the mere idea
that our zodiacs are perfectly matched.
Justice isn't doing the right thing.
It's just about balancing the scale,
Between right and wrong.
He killed a man,
You know what to do.
Chamber to his head click click boom.
The scale must always be,
In a mutual state.
Who ever touches the scale will meet their fate.
Eye for an eye,
Who can argue with that.
Strike for strike, kill for kill, prepare to receive your bill.
You owe us many of things,
An arm, a leg, a wife, three fingers,
And everything else you took away.
If your life doesn't pay the toll.
We will simply carry the ones,
And take them from those who you love.
This is blind justice,
For how can it care.
It is a scale,
Libra is always fair.
The 23 of the month came
and breath entered my body,
I remembered my name.
Billboards with my face
People cheered me on,
11 months of living with amnesia,
I'm alive again.
With pride I can chant, I AM LIBRA!
I'm no comedian,
but to see you smile
I become funny.
I'm not rich
but I will hustle
to get you money.
I'm no chef
but your taste, I savor
I desire your flavor.
I'm no freak
but new lovers,
I love to meet.
I'm no hoarder
I love to keep.
I AM A POET
A PEOPLE PLEASER
Maybe I'm just fucked in the head
that's why I'm never happy,
I give, they take, I get nothing in return
but a fake safety net if it all crumbles
"but I gave you that" "remember that one time.."
sure I've done a lot for them
but the scales are never balanced
once someone calls it quits
I am captivated by the pattern of a tiled staircase where fountain pens scribe forbidden texts upon spiral bannisters which lead to debased psychological states.
Do we have permission on this stage of trajectory, to fire statements into unfathomable corridors, which surpass today into the realms of tomorrow?
Dark figures writhe in the thick fog of eclectic séances.
I have engaged in nightly astral flights down the streets of blatant innocence.
Are you standing on the inside?
Bring me back from what is deemed to be modernity and bypass my voltage where uncertain predictability is a predictable uncertainty.