Forehead — New Poems

Exposed to the wreckage of rise and fall,
 Burned by the same cycles of discord and broken paradox
 That haunt every soul —
 No one ever sees my point of view,
 Only to return,
 As if the first time was even a beginning.
 Maybe it takes a process to find your way back.
 Reason.
 Hold.
 Final offer.
 I’m singing in the rains of misty despair,
 But this drought won’t even feed itself.
 I can’t keep chasing ghosts,
 Locked in a cycle of punched-out conspiracies about me.
 People are recycled property.
 For some God-forsaken reason,
 Not everything can be stolen —
 But some things are always up for the taking.
 That’s the game.
 That’s the price.
 Fuck, man.

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