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Slowly, slowly,
I ink a sad life;
Pensive much as I face
The ghost of a conversation I
Have dodged for years.

A sluggish right hand,
Shivering with pain and fear,
Types out the detects of a 
Person I have locked inside
A salacious facade.

A rotten soul,
Cleans out my white cells,
I sit with eyes contracted,
Defenceless as self esteem
Recedes like a distant galaxy.

Shifty eyes, a blank face,
A stubborn shiny nose
That knows not when to stop;
To stop and warrant me the 
Ultimate closure about my mother.

Cuz when she died, cross my 
Heart it should’ve been me.
Maybe I wouldn’t be purging
A long week, myriad wrongs
And a painful existence.

My poems are bad memories
Of a reality I project, with
An insistent mind, onto
Barren soil on which even
Angels fear to tread.

I stood amazed as all my angels
Coitus with daughters of men,
Watched and nurtured them to
Be the demons they have become
And the devil they have made me.

Cuz appetites follow
The law of diminishing returns;
Sexchat becomes less of a hub
For the impotent but an activity
More tiresome than sex itself.

Cuz it exhausts the soul,
And drives one away from a 
Self the community hurt;
Hurt, punished and smiled at
The night I buried him.

I hold on to my few sands of
Time for only one reason;
One I took a lifetime to understand:
Hearts may be deceitful
But they bleed for the people.

Overdose on cough syrup,
Smoke trees, pop lexapro,
Drink automobile fuel,
Where is dendrite and 
The cheapest brothel?

Or just get God on the phone!

©HerbertUba


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