Poetic Justice Warrior

They called me a poetic
justice warrior;

sentry guarding borders
between the irony of
absolutes and burdens
of proof,

For richer or poorer,
I’m porcelain,
slips of the tongue away from
tones that
would sound almost beautiful with

I always meant to
embrace the best that I could be
but got lost in
the breeze of my own monsoons,
kind of like waiting on the
moon to force
dawn’s hand
when we could’ve danced the
nights away.

In sickness and
health, I’m running on redemption’s
fumes, trying to make room for its
trying to
intrude on our couch of
comfortable doubts,

breaking down
the definition of walls.

Truth is,
I’ve never felt so involved
in games of chance, and your hand
in mine is

Truth is, I’ve never walked among the
living like I do now.

2 thoughts on “Poetic Justice Warrior

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