Another blurry monday morning.
Lacks flavor. Like dry coffee grounds.
Wasted dawn on a dream.
Wasted adolescence on an idea.
I was braver then. No where to run.
No martyr to hang on. Just a kind word, and a pat on the head.
Finding a little solice in friends, family and love.
Like a beggar finds in a newspaper during the first cold downfall of spring.
Like a tails-up penny found but left.
Sobering like any tiedie bitchslap.
Wax and poison on the fruit.
Embalming fluid in the cream.
Powdered insects in the grain.
Hands holding back the scream.
Left hungover in a blind apartment.
Armwrestling with a quadrapalegic for gas money.
Finding myself losing myself to find myself in the strangest and most sacred places.
Some as uncomfortable as the back of a volkswagon,
others as natural as the pin at the bottom of a barrel
or the top of a bottle.
Just a new high in lows.
