it's too bad I'm
lazy
with no lesson in
my plan
(but who'd listen
to me, anyway)
I'd rather lurk
behind the scenes
of someone else's
dreams
than awaken my own
while I sit and
play
connect the dots
in the broken
mirror
(that's another
seven years
of zits, I guess)
painting ragged
portraits
of faces that don't
exist
scribbling bits of
scenery
from a play without
a stage
and actors fighting
to be free of their page
but until anyone
can crawl
into my head
and look out
through my eyes
struggle to beat
with a wavering heart
battle splinter and
shards
that try to crack
my skull apart
until then
they'll never have
the right
to ask why
I am the way I am
my words may bloom
on paper
to those who can't
discern
the flowers from
the weeds
but behind my lips
they're forever trapped
with garble and
spit
and mumbles
(which is why I
prefer
silence to speech)
I guess I don't
care as much
as everyone else
or maybe I care too
much
for all the wrong
reasons
I'll continue to
coast
on a crest of good
intentions
until my welcome
has been
overstayed
and breaks on
another beach
then I'll move on
to another shell
where
again
they don't know me
all I leave here
are a few stray
rusted tangles
eraser dust
and a legacy of
parody
outside of this box
maybe I'll amount
to more than
an empty bottle
a pack of cards
some candle wax and
invisible scars
more than everyone
else's prophesies
of name, of fame
or, maybe none of
these
when eyes are no
longer
holding in hauntings
of ghosts that
never walked
except maybe for
show
I myself no longer
know
perhaps the glow
behind them
will mellow to
embers
and no longer burn
the slow burn
maybe I'll turn to
my own phoenix
and this time
smile
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