I write lines
Sometimes
people respond
Most
of the times not
I’m
not complaining
It’s
what I signed up for
When
martyrdom replaced Market District lives
It’s
how the savior crumbles
When
he or she is dipped in the milk of the people
And
the powers that be crucify the teacher for their outspoken beliefs
What
good would an introverted God be?
All
dressed up for the dance, like a wallflower standing in front of a firing squad
Everything
holding me hostage is self-inflicted and reeking of pot leaves and lavender oil
I
spill what may or may not be truth as the sands of time mock me with their
scrunched up faces and raccoon hands
My
stream of consciousness was wearing a mask when it came up behind you and
scared the living daylights out of your future-lives repository
She
plays peek-a-boo because it’s easier than owning up to her Robin Hood feelings
of doubt and altruism
Lying
in a burned out basement with Smith & Wesson, it’s all good until someone
brings up the subject of milk-blood
I’m
addicted to tuning in not checking out, go ahead and look at my track record
while we get caught up on who is mimicking who
I
write lines and sometimes they stick like spaghetti to the wall while other
times they draw a blank on a faceless crowd of wannabes
Charles Cicirella
1/15/2020 
