Myself Compromised

Two wolves, one dumb name

I ran around the last few weeks to look down and see that I am in the same spot that I started in. It was like throwing stones into a river and hoping the water rises; or nailing truth to the side of a sap tree and having people turn their heads side to side to shake from their skull hatred and bigotry. 

I compromised and it felt like a disservice. I married the angry wolves staring each other down in the margins of my heart to press my ear to the ground, to bury my head in the sand. To forget that the world runs red from where blistering leeches cling to the shadows of their perceptions and spew black over the colors of sunsets. 

Survival is not of the fittest but the ability to ignore the salt poured onto your poor snail body as you sludge over to the next lawn. I had dreams like any other snail to survive to the end of the world, to be happy in my little piece of contribution. But I survive in my salt-drowned job hoping that I shoot for the fucking moon and maybe land among the dying stars, but at best, I probably can’t even leave the stratosphere to fall between the clouds in my garbage-can shuttle. 

I do things I hate to live and I don’t get to choose to be angry and self-righteous and to see the world not smashed to a gooey mess by the pillars of hatred. 

I’ve always hated signposts to tell me where I’m at but maybe a glowing neon one to tell where I should be would, and to tell me that I have an inkling of talent to load on the ship to mars and hopefully sail the fuck out of here, would be great. 

Goodbye road work, hello I sure hope it does

A visage of myself, like painted mirrors on a sideshow attraction, only heightens the distance between where I’m at to where I want to be. 

Clowns tend to be some people’s worst fear, but I think it’s more the idea of possibility than not. And it’s the ifs and ands and buts that open the valley dipping down the back of the mind that can only be anxiety. It’s this fear that holds me back, that makes me forget parts of myself. 

Sometimes life passes by in flashes, in mistakes, in blurred lines of windmills piped along the landscape, so quickly like a car ride. I spent too long counting the cows out in the field that it now turns to blades of grass and those are impossible to count. 

The sky is faded blue, pale white disintegrating between the mountain tops, and green road signs tell me where I’m going. 

And I wonder, if I follow the winding road, I’ll be somewhere happy. 

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