After the defeat,

his doubts buzz around him like --


a mosquito cloud.

I woke
the morning
for it had slept in
still in bed
and I too keen
…waiting
to turn its head
I gave
a nudge
it gave
a grudge
and rolled over
the other way
in bed

That night
I kept my dream
while people slept
I dreamt
ignoring
the day
come the
morning
the sun
stood still
of it’s own will
and I, falling

In hope for light
and life  
I dreamt this dream
and wept
a stream of sleep
while wailing  
many a day
in mourning  
I watched
my defeat to
keep the 
dawn of day
hiding away
dying

Sometimes I feel defeated
by the fact that socks
can make or break my day
How the same socks
worn numerous times before
can suddenly make me feel
Too tense
Too triggered
Too trapped

Uncomfortable socks is an omen
of the bad things to come
if I walk out the front door
Yet when I have a bad socks day
I find the strength to continue
Safe in the knowledge
that when the day ends
I can throw them on the floor
Upon the heaps of ***** laundry
That I'm not in trouble for

The main theme of this poem is um, triumph
So uh the secondary theme of this poem is defeat?
How could that be? Is that even what a poem is?
Is my life a song? Is this the ******* chorus?

Something crawls up from the drain through the ***** dishes and out of the sink. It grips me! It’s got me!

[This is the part I want to hide]

I saw a man so beautiful
Rarely is there ever a beautiful man--
a man so beautiful you want to kneel
and scream “You’re so beautiful!”
But instead I’ll worship him in the ways he insists:
by stepping aside on the sidewalk,
by laughing at the jokes he steals from me,
by squandering the money he pays me to do his job.

Is my life a song? Is this the ******* chorus?

It took me three to four years to learn
the difference between worshiping and begging,
between faith and belief
And now I have neither and engage in both and yet
My life feels like a free coffee and bagel
My life feels like an unwrapped candy bar
My life feels like a compliment from a stranger
My life feels like a birthday card with cash in it
Is my life a song? Is this the ******* chorus?

This is my once-yearly poem.
It’s like a broken perfume bottle at the bottom of my bag.
Look at it-- read it. Smell it.  Literal swill.  Most things make me feel sad, even more things make me feel threatened, especially this poem.
What is there to do but put my head in my hands?
What is there to say if not sorry?

******* of suckling cheeks
taste of wine gone vinegar
left out too long exposed
to sunlight

twice ways between nowhere
we drank a bottle or four
before resigning ourselves
to defeat

we woke so many mornings
in drawn shade sunlight
with our heads split twain
by buzzing

we'd never known what it
was to taste hurt or defeat
until we likened our arguments
to chemistry

the defeated man
sees the possibility
in grey skies
the hope of sunshine
cleansing rain
the defeated man appreciates
a moments silence
kept from useless words
empty promises
failure is a trophy worth winning
now life can begin
now it means something