The poets I saw—  
the ones they envied,  
clean-cut skill,  
perfect in articulation.  

Lips of orators,  
Shakespearean quills—  
bequeathed to their palms,  
riddle-rs.  

They pen on how to change generations,  
gain the strength of bulls,  
surf tsunamis,  
**** racism.  

The poets I saw—  
I can't unlatch their shoes.  
I only type as I wait  
for my soup to cool,  
with a tear and a red cheek.  

I only write  
to simmer the screams  
in my head.

I'm an enigma, a quitter and survivor, a pioneer weary of the change that literally defines the career
In desperate need of a savior or at the very least a lucky rabbits foot souvenir
One to keep me free and clear from the type of bad karma that's over the top severe
I've been thinking I don't belong here, I don't know if it's me talking that talk or the fear
I let it take the wheel and steer, my driving advise from the rear seat falls on a deaf ear
I guess I ain't suppose to interfere with the charioteer, the why isn't clear
Now I've gotta kick it into another gear to commandeer my own life like a buccaneer
This deer in headlights nonsense won't get me anywhere near my "new beginnings" frontier
I lost track of my trail guide mountaineer, forgotten about like I'm the fourth musketeer
The sheer volume of every collected tear almost drowns me at least once a year
Or acts like pavement when I smear across it after falling from the atmosphere
My guardian angel is a horrible puppeteer, seems to disappear when needed most like he's the one with crippling fear
...go figure

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