drove
many routes
to find the gold.

Singing on street corners,
rhyming for dimes
and quarters,
Searching sensations
to find the map,
only left him further
from his goal.

Showered shaved
shot up hope
in a golden syringe,
filled his tank
and headed out
towards those
blue mesa hills.

He, of course, could
not find the route,
confusion
became
his only best friend.

He
spins and spins
whirling dervish
disoriented,
there was no gold in dizziness
when he spotted it
he
spun
right past it
gone in a direction unknown.

The driver drives
many routes tonight,
spots many islands of neon,
he finds silver in her arms,
copper in the dice,
brass in the door handles,
diamonds in the rough,
he finds dirt for his grave.

There was no other gold
along the way
there was only the gold
of living
and that
had already been delivered.

In poetry I unload to explode
To break free from all the dynamite
I usually kept hidden
My passive nature makes me resistant
to its pollutants.
Sometimes they’re more like landmines
Awaiting for someone
Who stomp the wrong buttons
Then detonate
And explode between my shouts
And cries.

In all honestly
No matter how resistant I am to become resilient
my core is too vulnerable to crumble
By a simple backslash of toxic tongues
And suddenly I fall in my knees to simply walk away
No battle is worth an effort
When you know it’s just pride
Battling himself.

Be aware* of thy words

You could be a killer

©IGMS