Scribbles, Poems, and other Musings

Fire Fighter

It's getting harder to tell which shine lighter
The street lamps or the dimming stars:
Every Saturday night I'm an in the ring fighter,
No pay, yet still I find harm.

My responsibilities or thoughts are abused
By hands or tomatoes or nashing teeth
And after the fact, feeling drained and used;
I seek comforters under your arm.

Bloody and tear stained I catch on fire,
A flame for the world to see,
While they look on, I find it hard to respire,
In my tug boat I'll ride out the storm.

Salt in my eyes, gasping for air,
Calcifer, I have but one question:
What's a fire without any flare?
What's a fire that can't keep you warm?

Every Saturday night I let out a whoop,
Thinking this time, I might get free,
You pin me back up, like a flower I droop,
Only ashes, only ashes, or me.

It's getting harder to tell which shine brighter
The stars or the light behind your eyes.
I know in your core you're not a fighter,
But darling, will you fight for me?

I, or you, are we not the same?
Lips, pause at the shoulder,
Go down, back up, old game.
It brings you to tears, it tears you apart, not me.

So cover me up and hold me close
To keep the pain at bay.
Open wounds on a milky ghost
Are the price I pay, day by day.