Last week I was 
a warrior, 

consort of deadly calm.

Today I’m none of those, or at least their cadavers 
because everything that mattered feels like lifetimes ago.

Yesterday, I was happy to hope for something better to come along; maybe I’ll find it in 

a blue-eyed lady or at the bottom of a bong. No, not your God because I prefer to play the part on paper. 

Either way, we’ve all been conned.

An hour ago, 
I was pretty much a different person, slightly disconcerted but convinced I’m never wrong,

most often self righteous mistaken for strong.

But that personality is minutes gone, quarter past the time you long to hear 

his voice.

Not sure this poem has any real point besides
digital pencils that scrawled it, but I’m reborn every 60 seconds and live for all of it.

Were it not 
so impressive, it’d
almost be maladroit.

To that end, 

I’m still a teenage boy in armor too large for my shoulders, emotionally older but sentimentally schizophrenic, claustrophobic behind 

white picket fences,

burning down suburban joy just to see how quick furniture catches.

Yesterday I was the guy 

lying on your mattress, planning perfect futures on the ceiling, but today I’ve lost feeling in my fingers and

track of the times.

now; I just
need to 


5 thoughts on “Writeous

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