Make do with what’s left of you.

And that’s about the time I told myself:
I won’t let discomfort guide my life.
This sickly slow pursuit of its absence,
I said, is ridding my soul of substance.

I mustered the nerves to teach myself to swim
in all the static rivers I’d cried in.
And I apologized to all the fish
that breathed my salty sadness through their gills.

But I wanted more, I still felt disgust,
I still felt the shame, I still longed for lust.
Air I knocked out of me became a gust.
I fished and fished so the fish lost their trust.

What was I thinking whilst driven to this?
The “being” of human, doing you’ve kissed.
It’s my struggle; oh, this empty abyss
that’s caused my sins and I to be dismissed.

I’m no sad seraph. Royal blood or crown.
I’m the new kid who’s lost in “his” own town.
You may not know me because of my hat.
Always wild-goose chasing, it’s rather sad.

And each one of these coats and bumps and shows
have kept me busy, but not beyond woes.
For I’ve many years and roads on my shelf,
but lately, all I long for is myself.


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