Never once did I find, as I sat on a hard chair, that life was ever just or fair.
I played those fun games, and even played them well, but after passing “go” I found myself in Hell.
It’s a real long story, perhaps one you’ve heard, among the gossip and talks or from a chirping bird.
Was something I did wrong, or even worse, right?
That question repeats every fucking night.
When I backed up by life, in a cage or corner, I tightened my hands closed my eyes to the horror.
My heart is made of stone and my tongue dipped in silver, but I never had a teacher and never knew the giver.
When the moon was full of blues even then, I found myself quickly outgrowing other’s shoes.
When the long day is done, without any worthy lesson learned, I make myself take inventory of everything I haven’t learned.
I never thought my life was bad, nor did I think it was good. But I recognized too often I seldom got what I should.
I felt love through the hate and beauty in the filth.
I witnessed splendor in the absence of such, and following the stories on paper or in a book, using a careful eye and watchful look.
So here I sit in the corner of a circle, on the top of the floor. Asking for no charity or expecting a miracle.
As my story turns over and my tale wraps up, the day starts to fall like a tired pup.
The moon and sun switch as the day keeps falling, now I’d love to talk more but that’s my history calling.