A bump and a bruise,
a trip and a scrape.
I can no longer wear my cape
or be the hero you so choose.
I drink my tea,
leg-up on display.
I cannot feel THOSE toes
much to my dismay.
An open gown,
I am bound.
I frown at what could be
me
is not what I see.
A part of me lost
in aimless injury.
And the hunt for who to be
grants me the right to let go.
I can not follow
you home tonight
I must go.
There are certain worries in life
you need to walk far from.
People, places, points in time;
words which stick,
people who pick,
substance abuse,
the constant misuse
of a good-natured being.
Devices do linger,
the pointed finger
of mishaps and miscreants.
Guilt-
a wilted flower goes to seed.
A deed to bury
and root over sins
of dirt, earth,
and the will to be beautiful.
I wander out into
the vast world of nothingness
and find substance
in the void of broken minds.
Find myself wishing
I could be more like graffiti,
leave my impression,
paint the town,
fade into the next.
A vandal of vocabulary
interceding internal dialogue
for the sake of a single sentiment.