I’ll make it perhaps

The light in here is bad

The shadows hang their heads

I’m tired of this playlist

I’m tired of this bed

In sheets that are not mine

Busted strings don’t pass the time

The shadows hang their heads

In light of what they find

Am I really headed backwards?

Static fills my head

Am I really headed back there

Like I’m the walking dead

So I light the wick

And turn the page

Familiar is this pain

The light in here is fine

The shadows are just that

Perhaps I’m feeling better

Perhaps I’m coming back

Always and forever

Never fine

But

I’ll make it perhaps

You can try but you just can’t fool kids.

You see,
the kid doesn’t forget.

Forgive, yes
but forget, never.

Kids don’t make the rules,
but they’re a product of them.

And no matter what you say
after the fact,

the fact,
is still a fact.

No matter how old you get,
respect isn’t due

remember,
it’s earned.

You see,
enforced respect holds no weight.

Power, yes
but honor, none.

Kids don’t make the rules,
but they abide.

They see,
and survive

no matter the so called times
that they’re raised in.

You can try, but
you just can’t fool kids.

No matter how old you get,
right is right

and wrong is wrong,
things never change.

Except for the kid,
you see.

 

The Sincerity of Our Chains.

Unlocked.

A brief wave of empathy.

A surge of relief.

Icy cold goosebumps.

Cover to cover.

Nearly 600 pages like chains.

And now, Freedom?

I beg to differ, you see…

The shackles leave marks,

indeed.

Deep reddish grooves on ankles, on wrists.

So tender, the flesh.

They are much more cozy than I see elsewhere.

They are much more honest, you see…

I leave them off a short while.

To make a sandwich.  To use the loo.  To make chump change.

But know I must put them back on again.

Because freedom isn’t frolicking aimless as a loon.

Freedom is trusting the sincerity of our chains.

Knowingly, locked.