Blessed are we who have fallen from The Tower
Blessed are we
Scraping fingernails ****** on the glass ceiling,
Licking at the heels of heroes with broken knuckles who tried to bust through to heaven,
Burning sage for the sake of all the dead spirits waiting around to come alive,
Contemplating reality through thick rimmed glasses wreathed in flame,
Counting credit card taps on tables while buzzing out of fragile bones for the next high,
Sleeping half awake in dreams of red wine and brighter futures,
Hallucinating city lights on balconies in a gin soaked haze of grandeur,
Holding out for wayward outcast brothers and sisters to come by and hear us preach revolution,
Selling burdens in parking lots for the price of a pack of cigarettes and a ride home,
Sobbing on strangers shoulders on Greyhound bus rides to ruin,
Offering confessions at the feet of angels we couldn't begin to understand but loved regardless,
Zigzagging through tree lines on another half drunk run from the police,
Searching for Thomas Wolfe's spirit in boxcars and jazz records and visions of once romantic America,
Cutting deep in to the veins of holy purpose to stain canvasses until they resemble dreams,
Climbing bridges to taste the salt in the air and violent change on the wind,
Breaking into cars to search for an escape from our fathers' rage,
Painting nails black as we pick poems from every strand of young girls hair, trying to remember to feel blessed to have the privilege of so much feeling,
Coming home wreathed in the laurels of our stories, to be met with roared laughter from friends and vacant stares from our parents,
Picking flowers to sweeten the smiles of lovers with the only beautiful things that do not come from our own hearts,
Talking all night in circles until the cops come by to remind us of the world we live in,
Smoking *** on nights we want nothing more than to recapture the feelings we lost, and drift away in a fog of some old glory
Falling in love with rivers and the people we associate with our memories, working up the nerve to kiss them under streetlights in driveways where birds sing too early,
Forgetting the phone numbers of the people we used to call every full moon,
Leaving messages on the walls hoping someday someone will come by and comprehend the nature of the disease,
Tasting death on our birthdays and throwing up the sins of years past, comforted by the sins of years to come,
Shooting for the stars from the hip and blowing violent holes in the roofs of the places we called home instead,
Living indefinitely in the crawl spaces between endless Purgatory cycles of rise and relapse,
Blessed are we sleeping restless in the suburbs,
Testifying to the suffering in Dayton,
Swimming strung out through the Cincinnati streets,
Robbed blind in Columbus,
Hoping to leave Louisville fast enough before our ghosts drag us home,
Erasing memories of Lexington by way of moonshine and therapy,
Praying the South might take us back if we just said we were sorry
Blessed are we who have fallen from The Tower,
Blessed are we who still have so much farther to fall
This is still not finished