I
Hero
in
Hero
He struts into a meeting feeling meek and needy but,
greater than the digit zero.
He figits around not breaking much mental ground although,
these restless legs could corrode the tiles to dust.
Nothing has been able to hold his attention,
they call it ADD.
He calls it the human condition.
He sees fear in a spoon full of dust,
shrugs it off continuing to pump veins full of rust.
Packs a bag and gives sister a hug,
trudge down under I95 reaching Broad to south Philly,
to be at peace and tormoil living amongst the crust.
II
Trying marijuana maintenance
Trying therapeutic intervention
Trying geographical relocation
Trying to be happy.
A pale king in the end a peasant feeling sappy.
He writes
He fights
To the bitter end he sees too many loved ones send,
Letters from the graves they dig for themselves.
An addiction which cannot bend and always leaves
Them broken.
These letters represent a token of hope to overcome
Dope, from beyond this temporal transient world,
He receives these letters.
Don’t give up! Don’t give in!
Written, in beautiful otherworld cursive.
III
These restless legs can wear the cotton sheets
To fractured fibers.
A splintered conscience,
A glint of hope,
These trans-dimensional letters arrive on a silver rope.
The pale king takes it all in with no buffering
And dismisses his selfish suffering.
He has won
He is the hero of this story.
The pale king who once strolled the Kensington
Streets less than zero.
Is now a ****** hero.
Rally around this man,
A clan of beautiful addicts,
Laughing and not being normal,
Who wants a life which is normal?
All his friends
All his friends
All my friends
The memories together blend,
In the end our fuck-ups make us stronger,
Than the accountant making ends meet in a
Culd-a-sac street sign labeled dead end.
We spent the last ten years trying to feel alive,
And will spend the next ten feeling justly deprived.
His letters scream to defend:
That it is all well worth it, in the end.
Where are those friends tonight?
He visits them at their headstones,
Reminded where it leads, a life being ******
Shivering cold to the bone,
Hot sweats dripping down flannel folds,
All we wanted was to break the mold.
He is more than a statistic of decimals and
Digits, greater than the sum of zero.
He is the ****** hero.
No longer
Less
Than
Zero.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
I
Hero
in
Hero
He struts into a meeting feeling meek and needy but,
greater than the digit zero.
He figits around not breaking much mental ground although,
these restless legs could corrode the tiles to dust.
Nothing has been able to hold his attention,
they call it ADD.
He calls it the human condition.
He sees fear in a spoon full of dust,
shrugs it off continuing to pump veins full of rust.
Packs a bag and gives sister a hug,
trudge down under I95 reaching Broad to south Philly,
to be at peace and tormoil living amongst the crust.
II
Trying marijuana maintenance
Trying therapeutic intervention
Trying geographical relocation
Trying to be happy.
A pale king in the end a peasant feeling sappy.
He writes
He fights
To the bitter end he sees too many loved ones send,
Letters from the graves they dig for themselves.
An addiction which cannot bend and always leaves
Them broken.
These letters represent a token of hope to overcome
Dope, from beyond this temporal transient world,
He receives these letters.
Don’t give up! Don’t give in!
Written, in beautiful otherworld cursive.
III
These restless legs can wear the cotton sheets
To fractured fibers.
A splintered conscience,
A glint of hope,
These trans-dimensional letters arrive on a silver rope.
The pale king takes it all in with no buffering
And dismisses his selfish suffering.
He has won
He is the hero of this story.
The pale king who once strolled the Kensington
Streets less than zero.
Is now a ****** hero.
Rally around this man,
A clan of beautiful addicts,
Laughing and not being normal,
Who wants a life which is normal?
All his friends
All his friends
All my friends
The memories together blend,
In the end our fuck-ups make us stronger,
Than the accountant making ends meet in a
Culd-a-sac street sign labeled dead end.
We spent the last ten years trying to feel alive,
And will spend the next ten feeling justly deprived.
His letters scream to defend:
That it is all well worth it, in the end.
Where are those friends tonight?
He visits them at their headstones,
Reminded where it leads, a life being ******
Shivering cold to the bone,
Hot sweats dripping down flannel folds,
All we wanted was to break the mold.
He is more than a statistic of decimals and
Digits, greater than the sum of zero.
He is the ****** hero.
No longer
Less
Than
Zero.
