Dick Chin [Re-Post]

Some of us have ambition, the most vivid depiction of material success.
The rest of us barely have the diction to detail how we could have been the best.
Some of us create high fiction, coherent visions just livid with brilliant turns of phrase,
while the rest of us scramble to pen a preamble we’ll use as a foreword to highs we’ll

always be chasing.

But I would give nothing more than to have you
in my audience,
whether sparse and underpopulated
or a crowd of people copulating in your midst.

When my heart’s in a fistfight
with my ribs, you’re
my breath in
the chaos.

One in a million of us will be privileged enough to leave a legacy,
the rest of us drink ourselves to death, smoke menthol cigarettes just so the world might ask our name.
One in a million of us can afford to self-medicate on an ego train,
while the rest of us need stronger drugs, more wine and a hug to weather this

shoestring budget game.

But it’s the adrenaline that pays the bills
when money’s short
and the power company has killed
the dying light bulbs of my childhood dream.

When the drink becomes my
heir, baby, you’re my
air.

How much more of
a paradox could you be?

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