oh I'm sorry mother
but I'm thinking that I've failed
to keep a promise: paper skin
uninked, unscathed, unscratched,
unveil
a better set of hands,
mine shake too much
my fingers fly like frantic ducks
away from man's lamenting gun,
unsteady in the getaway, falls
faster than a blood-red sun and
cowers from
the dreary grey
so all my scars are wobbly today
and all my thoughts are wobbly today
we delapse just to relapse
months clean slip down the drain
like crusty dried up blood and broken
wings of things that hoped to much,
then slowly turned to dying rust-
I'm starting to hate myself again,
pretty monsters plague petty heads,
I'm finding that the more I say
the less I wish I said
these poems are soulless, so I've heard
from whispers on the autumn wind,
a sin amongst humanity, the
ramblings of a privileged kid
slinking around like bloated figures
in darker water, a youthful martyr
wasting precious velvet ink,
I like to think they're sad
but really
pathetic is a better word
young hearts hurt too much
after highest midnight highs,
when flakes of shallow morning light
come leaking through your
ghost-town eyes
and slowly drain your memories
to a long-forgotten state of mind
to a New York City state of mind
like a glitzy washed-up one-night act
and all you've got is pictures,
torn up polaroids,
impressions of a better time,
roaming the streets wanting
a roman demise and vagabond shoes
prison blues from a past life
when God left you yelling at the sky
screaming at the thunderclouds, why?
muddy tears mixed with rain,
and pain
unimaginable pain
scribbled-out scripture left for family
and imaginary goodbye's to old friends
a shot of strychnine in the heart,
sterile silver on the nightstand
awaiting this shallow symphony's end
but lack of courage kept me playing
but lack of courage kept me staying
awake just one more day,
I should be glad.
I guess I'm glad.
and still
I relax, I relapse
