Screaming
So…
King Jr. died at 39...and I wonder if my confusion with gender identity issues is supposed to be his gift of my birth as I close in on 40...but the disabling pressures that pack down on my conscience destroy my capacity to deal with the burden of confusion...It feels like I’ll never truly know....
But,
I’m in the game so I don’t notice the cut until blood is everywhere… and I might know, but knowledge is useless without activity...a rose is a fact so we act on beauty... the smell, the look that we engage… to know a rose without acquainting myself to it is a kiss without contact and a muscle without movement...I’m atrophying … it’s a knowing without proof as you present to a doubter… then do I really know?
The fact is,
I doubt as I speak fact...it’s a being without living...like I add positive numbers that equal a subtraction, a bear calling himself a Koala...like I’m calling my madness my grounding sanity.
And I lose a little more everyday…
In all truth,
I don’t know if I’m gonna live or die… I’m going to try my best to live, but I’m in the grips of a zombie who hasn’t bitten down but the stench of his breath on my neck has me screaming in a poem.
Truth be told,
I’m offered an empty plate as I starve, and when this koala does the math, she sees the pentagon equals a psyche ward and a rose is nothing but a distant, alien concept… as I finish out 39 questioning an unknown I can’t validate for me or anyone else... as the contractions get closer together I wonder, what does it take to see the truth if the commotion of warring facts leave you puzzled?
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