Smoke Signals

The second hand smoke Of a relentless pursuit of peace. Projects the burned out forest Of my soul. My tired trembling hands That I return to my pockets Because of the blood stains under my Finger nails. Never finding anything remotely Close to home, I am a careless visitor in my own skin.Black sheep,the shame swept under the rug.the claustrophobic cataclysm that nobody talks about.The dirty secret hidden in a box lock away In shadows.Shame I have always carried to the name that never was mine to begin with. Systematically hell bent on finding something worth what fight I have left.This battered broken glass heart of mine, the glue oozing From the cracks is the metaphor of my whole life. ~JAZ~