Audio Atlas

My mother always
questioned why I was
blessed
with articulation but never
articulated happy thoughts.

I won
the linguistic
lottery but my
emotional glossary
moronically went
off

half-cocked,
intent on picking
every locked
door in
my brain.

All the loser anthems
my Walkman played
in tandem with
the rise and
fall of
maturity are

randomized now,

canonized frowns that spent
all that
time looking down on
me, demanding
ransoms I could
not pay.

All my phantoms put in their place, skeletons in their respective graves, the only thing that haunts me still is wide open space,

a spotless
slate I’d
hate to
waste on
reckless
abandon.

Those songs marred by
scratches on the
surface of
an audio atlas
are more nostalgic
than necessary,

artifacts of
a secondary existence
I ended on
principle.

Outside this
penitentiary for
runaway syllables

I’m not
as world-weary or
difficult as I once
declared
I was.

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