I got problems 99, these words ain’t one. Soundbytes and starlight stand on the teeter and your stories emotioned slide up to take totter and send my heartstrings into space,

I work on running, sweating out the memory of what your mouths said: “my drugs make me feel” and “my home is a prison,”   

What do I say? What do I do with all these burdens that end up hanging on my back and stressing my nerves out to unrecorded places?   

I kept pinning them down with a song in the car and some groove on the highway, but I took them in too soon and swaddled them below my breasts screaming for a drop-box,

Some wings to latch them on with pitch and fly them off to higher heavens than the ones that I have ever felt or seen in time 24. Weary I am now from saving face and facing what needs saving,

All of it until my glow grows dull. I’ll sew on quilted patches that show. They are mine to remember, but not to drag on,

Balloons full of air and zeppelins on rooftops will welcome in the itchy thoughts and carry them up and away to clouds with puddles and sunshine on high. There they’ll meet a man who shoots them off in

Rockets and the dust will fall down again on lilies losing their petals, but the gardener feeds and washes away the poison parts until his hands grow rough and gray,

Wizened and old, arthritic with profession. They shovel and lay down the soil holding a watering can above. There’s still much work to do.


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