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“Being blessed”,

with a grasp of what’s fake,

but, a misfortunate face.

Is, an ill-fitting, masking glove,

poisonous, contorted, laced…

 

…worn atop a horrid, yet, wholesome hand-i-cap…

 

…in a solitary, futile, expressionless game.

 

A trumphant sip, of, the water of life.

Burning; it’s glassy, broken voiced, self-esteam; at the stake.

 

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“Being encouraged”,

to cope, to carry on regardless.

Without hope, or, good standing.

Is, a floating, mushroomed shroud,

dragging along, leggy hands: demanding…

 

…the outreaching vestiges of pained, bad-luck…

 

…like; seven years of broken mirrors; long, threaded, and, tense, yet, shardless.

 

That everlasting, tentacled sting,

of; a warking; talking jellyfish; heartless.

 

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“Being contrite”,

for, a forced upon disposition.

Parented by inter-generational headlocks.

Wrestling with future trauma, shaped, like; behemoth-ed head-lice…

 

…as the scythes, of ancestral suffering, shear the infected, obligated dreadlocks…

 

…hatred is embalmed in polychromatic; sapped, shallow, skin-deep ideologies…

 

…and the child wrestler, turned adult combatant, is, now, solely controlled, by; submission.

 

The inability to reach the moment’s height. Passed. Past. 

Due to growth stunted, by; yesterday’s bondaged, shackled partition.

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