My Life At the Edge
My life's on edge, a vertical swing. I see the stars from which I cling, staring to the ground and wonder how it will feel, when I fall, I'm sure it will sting. All the while my heart sits at edge, slipping, I sing. Allowing a fantasy to be, pretending there is nothing that is aching.
My bones creak as the shadows creep. Coldness flows upon each step and I shiver as I weep. I have yet to feel clean, no matter the wash, I wish to glow. Always asking, why me, why the sudden stop of what made me happy? I bend with twists and turns as life is what ever it will be.
I turned my tongue from complaints, to high aim. Adding new strings to my instrument as my soul sits in its sling. Pondering a new place to live, to breathe, to be. But there is no escaping, breaching what leaves us both babbling at the edge.
No more terrible aiding of sour lips. No more firing from the hips, yet here I am blocked by what ever is behind this mist. I miss, the subtle days of whispers and drinks, where I never really gave myself time to think.
But pain is all I bred, but then, I had no reason to bear responsibility, I ignored the reason to be king. I was free of marching drums. Of blasting goals of wishful blessings, I preferred rum. A gun, a fictional piece I could end my barking sins and run.
But now I am called face to face, I wish I could be numb. But here I am, standing with nothing but a bucket, empty, ready to fill with new reasons not to run. Often I hear something, a ring, tinging, a blaring belching of death, calling my name.
Bidding fear to my skin, but I must not fall weak, though some days I wish to fall from this edge. To hail in my name to be dead. For often, I feel I lack, the ability to win. Struck from the sun, so now I swing from its neighboring son.
But even he wishes more from my boozing liver, my shallow lungs. Yes, yes, I am tired of blending in as if a blotch of paint against a white wall with white halls standing hundred feet tall. I am working and counting the stars that fall.
Maybe some day I'll catch one, and call it home. Cease this craving to be done, to fall ill and be a waste of this coiling loop of thought. Caving to the echoes of pain, fanning the flames and feeding the lame.
Someday, I'll be everything I ever wished to breed.
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Search just a little more, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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