Confessions from Neverland

I don’t have the words to explain,
pretty little pictures to illustrate.

Only fault lines where my
hands shake,
gangrene mannerisms where
I don’t know grace

and I’m falling,
falling,
falling,

out of your arms and into a
rat race, where I can be your
number one headcase when
I win.

I don’t have the patience for
reaching zeniths, to wait for
God to
deal me
penance, and climbing my
spiritual Everest is a one
way trip.

I was never good at
friendship, an
affront to altruism with
a penchant for
lip,
smart mouth with the
lightest of lisps.

Verbatim, my tongue was too
quick for you to catch, and you
were too grounded in reality to
ever fully bring me back.

But you had my back when booze
and pills mixed badly and my
heart was a factory of
hindsight,
manufacturing
regret.

I don’t have the words to attest
to the overdose of
breath you gave
my suffocation, but
some things aren’t worth
trying to paraphrase
best when
you use an Etch-a-Sketch to
wreck the
competition,

(assembly lines of contrition).

So before we fizzle out, hear our
songs on oldie stations and outlive
rules we flout,
thank you for
going the distance.

I’d still be falling,
falling,
falling without you,
and dreaming about
dying when I
touched down.

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