I sold myself today.
Came up shot of a reasonable price.
yet and still
Fire and fury
for a stem offering.
Hot shot- a fleeting moment.
Steel horses escaping violently down my throat.
Degradation. Wet inviting.
What is price?
Value or worth?
What is flesh worth on an open market?
What is price worth?
Self worth. Commodity. Fetish.
This submission to longing
has kept my hands from grabbing
an M16, a bottle of whiskey, and
obliterating every life including my own.
is the reason I am dying twice as fast as my brothers.
Be it by the bullet or spoiled seed.
I belong to a select few.
Those left dancing red
in the avenue lights
on crushed cans.
on exposed hope. . .
I will always be there
in the corner of family photos-
performing my duties in silence.
Begging acknowledgment or death.
Begging some reprieve from the monotony of sorrow.
i have to let go of old skins
i keep on holding on to them
trying them back on to see if the flaps tighten again
and it’s a waste.
ive moved past and grown to know better.
i know better than to mask fresh wounds with dirtied wraps
because i know that infection is death
in spirals down
and bleeds out
onto street corners
and i can’t keep finding myself on corners in filfth
because one day won’t be able to be just infected
and brought back to health.
fresh wounds may hurt, but they will also, almost always heal.
loneliness aint bein’ alone. its lak an ole’ shroud of misery wrapped and tucked about. I been at mah loneliest in the company of fine men and friends- not just in mah room. And on the contrary, i dun been at mah most fulfilled wid myself. dis nite time feelin’ might last longer than i desire but it ain’t a forever thing. de ole shroud will unravel wid time and de building of a better me. one which can look in the mirror and smile on what it sees- truly.