As potent as the drugs flowing from an IV drip,
I the prodigal son of this town,
the only one to infuse the blood of a much needed sacrifice into it's veins,
the one to carry the souls of those past,
those future,
those fleeting few at the end when the long standing foundation that has held up countless feet and dreams,
no longer stands and in it's place breadcrumbs fall,
thousands from the sky,
folly and few,
until embedded in the very ground it lands upon.

I, the one from the third house down the lane,
the all seeing all knowing all feeling touch,
climb the silo and above take in the view,
the little lives and scattered stories,
told once in still rooms with only the orange light of a desk lamps,
then carried away on drool into the storm drain,
with the leaves and street grit.

I, the babe,
once innocent and tender,
and still so within me exists,
carried through an entire lifetime on a sled,
down the sidewalk with only the sight of street-lamps as stimuli,
past every corner and home a dream implanted from my eyes to theirs,
yet mistranslation corrupts the many and what can I do but allow,
their own bibles to be written.

This town belongs to one king and one son on both sides of the mountain,
snow to teach them lessons,
rain to cleanse their wounds,
and to keep this monolith of a civilization alive,
all that is prophesied,
to run far, far away,
in place.

it's the time of year when i look back at my calendars reminders,
and today i remembered an ad for a long distance relationship bracelet,
i wanted to buy the entire lot and smash them into,
a thousand tiny fragments,
and maybe that says something about how i cast this anger and loathing into the river of others' lives,
muddy the entire network of water.

i am so ******* angry and convinced it will never end,
visions of rage and betrayal i stir into my morning oats,
feast upon the distortions of the past,
alone again and never to see the morning breeze,
i cry, i sob, i call out to the god of war and assertions,
my path leads off a cliff,
i catch myself but bash my head,
into a thousand bits.

My writing will never be nice.
It will never have rhyme or reason or hold iambic pentameter.
It is not typewritten on aged paper bought from a small bookstore, carried home hurriedly under a black coat in a downpour.
My experiences are not universal,
on the contrary,
they are painfully singular stories.
My writing will never be featured in a book,
or on the front page of a trusted source,
it will be buried away in a desk,
dormant with the other scraps of musings once cherished.
I am not one like Keats, Byron, Frost, Dickinson, or Poe,
I, for all intents and purposes, am a fawn lost in the forest,
admiring the sights and sounds around me,
listening to those wise ones who can describe them in such perfect tone.
It would be fair to say that I am not even a poet,
I am simply a brain that thinks,
A body that moves,
And a soul that feels that very special something.

Even in a situation I had once or twice,
begrudgingly dreamed myself in,
never anticipating the morphing from one state to another,
of contemplation to reality,
I no longer dread.

Even within the month that usually drags me to my knees,
I accomplish the impossible and turn my sight towards the sun,
golden hour still exists and dust still sways in its light.

And yes,
even with all of this,
unrequited circumstance,
my mind and body still dance.