I seek out a dim corner of the warehouse to weep,
Over my losses, and those that I’ve caused,
As those are the enduring secrets I keep,
Not the few and far between applause.
My jaw clinches, my eyes well,
As though I’m chewing on my own death,
My nose bridge tingles, and temples swell,
And I can feel the loss of my breath.
How can I remain present with an effervescent past,
How can I boast, knowing I’ve hurt those who deserve it least,
Most of the clinched fist bit doesn’t last,
But the overall feeling isn’t released.
What can happen that will bring about genuine change,
Along with a genuine sense of belonging and hope?
I can’t keep seeming out of sorts and strange,
I can’t keep fabricating my very own rope.
To climb or to hang, to swing or to pull,
To tie or to knot, to coil or to tow,
To dock or to anchor, to connect or to whip.
These choices like others create a reality in which I reside,
In which I dwell.
These choices though with good intent have been ill,
And caused harm.
These choices have caused resentment, and bitterness,
And frailty, and compartmentalized thick walls
Around hardened senses of worth.
These choices have caused torment, and haunting,
As well as a lack of birth.
These choices have been prayers in action,
Though good intentions back their front,
It all amounts to bleak distraction,
And a failed stunt.