Lately I've feared putting my face on lined paper,
feeling every emotion in a fit of words unworthy of spoken contempt.
But what to say when nothing is real to feel
when the alcohol stains have cleared and the friends learn to smile,
when the parents learn to love and you only question without answer?
So here, another "I am, I am,"
to grace this sheet like a bullet in skin,
in surviving the wounds that led us astray.
And the questions are asked on a printer page
to those who allude to our own Hells as a future to be,
but who am I to suggest this as a life
lived with symbols stapled to our heads?
Rhetorical question to a solemn remark
and the greatness of all-knowing and all-lying.
We woke up on the wrong side of our lives, the world, the concrete,
and we walk around shameless of our defeat.
And at some point or another, we stop and still and mutter to ourselves
"and self, and self, and self, and self, and self,"
to one, another, to not, to knots in razors,
to candied shells over sour insides that walk the streets with a smile.
Every bit as worthless of the last, the cost, the knowing,
the hope that the pain forgets to last in the bottom of broken hearts and bottles.
If they could miss the misery then our pages just might have something useful to say.