We are all imperfect
pieces of people
from lives long past.

A mixtape with
too many DJ's;
a rap ballad with
-at the minimum-
eight-plus features
and three producer tags.

O.R. nursin' our way
through another
twelve hour shift
with a distinct
lack of direction:
adrift.

Then, nursing a
twelve-pack with a
perceived sense
of our sensibilities-
prejudiced by
our pride.

~~~~~

We are all imperfect
pieces of people
from lives long past-
and,
~
~
~
that's O.K.

A lit match:
The smell of cigarettes-
A burnt paycheck-
Momma was right,
makin’ the world mine.

Cars out of gas:
I’m out of gas, too-
Wrecked it? Not quite-
Momma said write it out;
takin’ one day at a time.

Broken expectations:
Thought I’d break out-
But that mold’s still seeping in-
slipping through those cracks
in the glass where I keep my dreams.

Momma said ‘fight it now,’
that ache in my bones.
But I’m spilling diesel-
-with a match, a flash, and a smile;
my last rite:

“How trite”

Genetically predisposed to be overtly critical of everything
while also severely hindered by crippling social anxiety.

I've never been to therapy
nor a psychologist
not even a mystic-
and I know the last one's probably  
a fraud: but the effort is, at least, somewhere near
sincere.

Adjacent, perhaps.
 
I might even be riddled and rotted
through and through,
by the experiences that have shaped
my soul
yet I know-
that I still know nothing
at all.

If there's truth to my reality, and it's not some story I've concocted,
then the reality is that I am simply me, and I have certainly NEVER...

been to therapy.

Her voice dripped dagger wounds into soft flesh-
jagged holes; uncommendable amendments in my life's canvas.

Tearing up at the thought of those tears is a daily occurrence, and oh how those currents pull me deeper still.

Suffocating-an unknowable fluid floods my lungs. I believe my doctor when he tells me nothing is wrong; nevertheless, I drown;

Dragged, kicking and screaming, to the bottom of my psyche.
My foundation eroded much faster than I could have ever known.

Though my foul foundations and pitiful psyche are pieces of
~me~
I thought it pertinent to remind you of my persevering personality.

Thus the following is true: Life is NOT like a box of chocolates, that ****'s hard, not sweet, so stop it. Secondly, without any strife, is it really a life worth living?

"Carve the iron from my bones"
I wish there were another way

"Mold me, clay-like, into the idol of your adulation"
My skin burns from murderous hands

"Things bend and break at your wanton will"
Skeletal snapping fills the dusk

"Drain me of my marrow by 'morrow"
I'm running out of wishbones to believe in.

"I won't be me by morning"
But that's ok, because I've only ever wanted to be you.

-C

I am a writer.

A pen-born pathogen
whose purpose is to infect and inspire.
A teacher who might light their fires
or bring them up from where they're mired,
before too much damage is done.

The disease of apathy is running rampant;
a lack of care,
tons of resentment.
Their education? 'Tis seemingly turgescent.
They've survived by only a hair.

Unfairly they've been told
to do or die-
fit the mold. But,
I won't lie when I say
neither they, nor I, are sold.

You sarcastically said: "what a life-"
it has been impetuously so.
Yet at times it too has been
unknown; perhaps, since we were five.

That moment I could comprehend
thoughts and feelings tied to existing-
which, as you know, are tough to amend;
I was falling, twisting; condemned,
with only one truly possible ending.

Though, unlike those sidewalk preachers
and pretty bad teachers, my end
is rather far. I could take
a plane, a train, or someone's car,
but alas, my weekend is meager.