Wednesday, January 15, 2020


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

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