The Regifting

I don’t think you know me well enough by
now if you don’t know
I was born to die
alone,
two paces back are
required to grow even baby steps, and
my heart’s in my
chest, dare I venture
even that far.

The world is my backyard and the neighbours
are narcs,
Rottweilers living out some
cathartic experience yelling at the moon.

I don’t think you have the slightest clue what
I am, nor what I am not,
but you smell old pot on
my jacket,
and I suddenly lack a life plan,
from a generation of all
supply and no demand.

Upon first glance,
there are no paragons, either, and I’m none
the wiser for heeding
the elders.

The simplicity of
distrust
deceives us,
shotguns in every
handshake,
most basic
ideas
a live grenade,
the only shelter in place
those early
amendments.

But my words are clothes
and I’m dressed in bluejeans,
holes in the knees and
a collared shirt,
tie-adorned verse, and my hair
is a mess.

Being my
parents’ failure is the key to
my success, uneducated in society’s
favourite ways.

I found the love of my life daydreaming we
could all just
abate each other’s
flaws long enough to crawl out from our rocks
and talk it out,
even screaming.

My only goal is
leaving this
world a bit better
than it was
bequeathed to me.

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