the day
dissipates into drifting curls of hair and
maybe i'm lost because
i very clearly can't be there
latchkey kid
in the window of his childhood home
watching strangers
i go there when its fucked
and none of the answers deliver mind clear
and i can't pull away
from what i can't understand enough to fear
tough nut to crack
spoiled brat junkie or clean liver
equipping self-doubt
and i march away with it
fuel for clumsy itinerant motives
spitting lies at the sun
posture incoherent like a stolen gun
shooting at the votives for
target practice till it gets dark
prayer for a blind man
who'll probably never know when
I make my mark
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