There’s a war in my heart
a war in my head
at night as I sleep
at war
in the bed
I’ve made
like the maid
towel swan, chocolates
convincing myself
that this war, it could end
if I only fought, as hard as my bite
perhaps than I could
sleep through the night
with or without, this war in my head
there is war in my heart
that will burn till I’m dead.
It’s all the same, all of it
except it’s all very different
from what I remember
it’s more or less weathered
the wall’s still orange
the bricks are still painted red
the music’s never stopped
it’s still sympathetic
in this old coffee shop
where I once roamed
head over heels
with everyone, though
I know it’s hard to believe
Rosie’s staring back at me
judging as if to say,
welcome back old friend —
now get the hell out of dodge!
I
know
they’re right.
I
just
can’t stop.
Not
here,
not now.
I love
their love
that is not mine
that isn’t meant to be
for anyone else
except their
hearts
it comes in the night
in the morning while waking
it comes with a fright
sometimes without thinking
turns on like a light
or out somewhere drinking
when it does
it soothes with delight.
it comes after noon
in Ubers and cars
it comes now in June
in twilight and bars
I sit with the moon
and contemplate stars
when it does
I’m nearer than far.
it comes in the mourning
and pages of books
it comes without warning
in passerby who
look quiet and boring
it comes quite aloof
when it does, I’m
up on the roof.
it can not be forced
like lovers divorced
it does what it does
with little remorse
it comes like the wind
a powerful force
when it does
I can’t quite explain.
make up your mind, or don’t
either way, someone out there
is making up theirs, so
best of luck
as my head grows tired
wicked thoughts persist
my handkerchief’s been stolen
by Oliver Twist, such grueling times
though we both know,
more gruel for the youngster
the farther he’ll go,
and what petty crimes
the slip of the tongue
but why dear boy, do you continue to run?
I’ve asked you first, now answer
me? It’s for my health, and body you see,
nobody likes a little cunt
nobody cares for the likes of us
so hand it over, my handkerchief? No
my boy, you’re not a thief,
I knew that then, like I know now
your common and good
as good allows,
what I request, you cannot see
it grows within both you and me
those wicked thoughts, hand them over
my head’s now clear, fine and sober
and promise this, all right you first?
no this is not me at my worst,
so why don’t I? well why don’t you?
it’s yours to keep, yes that will do,
you’re right, perhaps I couldn’t see
the horror that in my defeat
is pure of heart, is yours is mine
both petty thieves in our own time
people, will always remind you, whether for them or yourself, how to hang your head
when I laugh out loud
while reading,
it’s always reassuring
and makes me smile
even harder
inside
thrifting is an art
an art that has
long since died
before our hands
Words Of An Average White Male 