wayward hearts & mismatched body parts

They wrote me cooker cutter
character arcs, stamped them like
yellow lines in parking lots,

advised I seek out Jesus to
reconcile with broken pieces
of half-baked
guidance
society was
soliciting door-to-door.

Get off
the drugs,
grow the hell up, try to marry
a woman who won’t leave you poor.

Make eye contact when
you speak with
someone,

this ain’t a whorehouse, dear.

Love means
never having to say you’re sorry;
guess I’m too inconsiderate to keep those
bridges from burning,
cursing how naturally,
they connect like a story
to your ears.

Boyhood lessons don’t apply here,
and I’m alone with my conscience upon a
sinking pier,
the most childish of
fears insisting they must
make waves.

If you have nothing nice to say,
say nothing at all
but thrown
objects still break
my bones,
regardless what we call them.

I realize by
this point, I probably
can’t be saved, salvaged or
changed;

all I know are
the days I must live with
myself are getting a lot longer.

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4 thoughts on “wayward hearts & mismatched body parts

  1. This was awesome. In parts wise, almost sage-like, other parts new-age street-smart and bursting with attitude, other parts melancholy and questioning. I think you’re a cool person and I think you’re going to be just fine. And then some.

    Make sure to pass it on to any future children. Wealth and poverty optional. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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