Loving me is complicated.
Loving me is Complicated
Loving Me is complicated.
Where do I force the demons to keep
my soul at peace.
Is it smathering writing on the walls?
jukebox hits down the hall?
Will my "too big to" punches fall
on deaf blows?
will the tear in my shirt bind us
when justice is restored?
The drip, drip, drip of sobriety,
the anti-drug,
bring down the volume of inspired voices,
throwing up the curtain of the brutal ancestors
saying conform or die.
Where is the statue of the first suicide?
The first man to look around,
and realize the futility to change the motion of the machine,
and that even by existing, perpetuated it.
A moment of silence, for everyone
forgotten by history books,
who died rejecting the hypocritical notion
that is polite society.