#middleman
The Middleman is at the start
with a fistfull of pockets.
He walks more than he talks it, with
empty hands.
Orange Peel knuckles; peeling, showing
A segmented truth. He mocks it.
Wholly revealing hisself with
waterbottle lungs,
Breathing, squeezing; knuckles popping
cracking, rabble-rousing-
The
Jenga game of a rib cage -
- sounding skeleton and shouting -
As the beating heart un-falls apart
Unprotected, Uncontained.
By what unscrutability
can a pure heart be blood-stained?
As his vain-ed cadence flows below the stone
The stone; a frame, posed.
Humble, yet reigns.
Like, the middleman comes to the end and
By God! Someone's killed the messenger, By God!
Inadvertent
Changing channels, all this
static passive
staging Battles
A rib cage match like unintended, homicidal rattles
As spinal shivers, the Middleman Delivers.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
I am the middle man
But not the one arguments speak of
I am the middle man of people skipped over
The person to my left will always pick the person to my right
Leaving me stuck in the middle alone
Alone to think of why I'm not good enough
Alone to think about how to be the front man
Alone to think about anything
Alone to talk to myself because no one will lend an ear
Lend an ear to the quiet one who wants to speak
I guess I'll lend myself an ear once again
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC