Monologues for Underdogs

This year I promised you the optimist,
rising sun in every mist,
the eponymous smile.

And thought words on my lips were served
better unsaid but
my tongue is treading this tall drink of
water someone’s
poured on my head,

and no, not
for charity.

Of all these characters
I’ve been carrying,
optimists weigh in the
heaviest of all;
playing
opposite to those
most appalled.

No monologues
for underdogs,
and no prayers.

Confessions.
Gods.

Organic mania,
iambic ceilings
an insomniac sanity,
and a lack of feeling
revealing panic long
concealed.

No promises for whatever
screaming at the sky is

called.

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