As I rode through the wilderness,
split in half by a manmade trail,
I strolled along my own cognitive road,
where I have wondered to wander
more than enough, truth be told.

I visualized what I’d come across
just around the corner; perhaps
a **** in progress, where I’d
put an end to such a misery.
I would be what they called

             “a hero”

and not the fleeing coward
I often felt like.

But empathy killed the damsel,
so I erased her distress,
and replaced this scene
with an act less extreme.

A man with the features
of a cheap stereotype
faded into the picture,
masked in black; he demanded
for the contents of my pockets—

—to which I, of course, refused,
smiling at a chapter
I’ve more than once abused.

A scream of relief pushed
surrounding crows into disarray
as another villain’s rusty blade
punctured my addicted flesh,
leaving behind a scar
for whenever I can’t think
of anything interesting to say.

My mind is full of potential lunatics
resembling a house of bricks
structured by insanity.

But where do I belong?

In the kitchen—
—or across the street?