Graveyard Shift

A moment gives life
Twists us to pain
Grants us reward
Redemption
A moment strips us of dreams not yet had
And sure enough we can all fall in collective defeat
Resign our denial of the big answer over in return for a mass baptism
Sedate entire lifetimes into retaining the dream of grey sanity
Never sanctifying, but legalizing a union of marriage between you and a promise of your wallet and your dick or otherwise your tainted womb's shot legacy
Look not at your mother
Look not at the father of your brother
Or the fathers of the others

Moments may have spelled divinity
But implemented more strenuous and forced sounds

Moments that've escaped us may very well have signaled the end

Or rather...perhaps they've retained a devout, faithful following
A prophetic set of blueprints reading of your
repetitious rebirths and ill-reputed incarnations
(both completed and still pending?)

If this rings true in any sense
I do wonder if the process is of any resemblance to the nature and executions of a wind up watch in pursuit of eternity's elusive horizon
Pushing onward in spite of the bloodied rest

Let me ask myself more questions here, in this
Entire pit of self absorption and guilt for potential narcissism
This inwardly concave hole I dig into myself during this, my introspective graveyard shift

But
When my loud disparities went unresolved,
A moment sat me down on my piano bench at 14 smoking weed from a can
And there was nothing wrong with that then
As a matter of fact, there was nothing wrong with anything then
When I was my mother and my mother was a bully
She flailed around in bitter opposition
Seeming to have a Benjamin Button-esque style of mental and emotional progression
Only further complicating my own attempted march onward, cause fuck the bloodied rest, right?
Sprinkling detours and pit stops and breakdowns along my road
She neither believed I was as real as any highway underfoot
Nor did she believe I was as treaded on too
Well, we'll call her a semi, she'd not rest till she carved the canyons of my adolescence with her wantonness and her weight
And so, when my restless disparities went unresolved once more
Ten million times more
A moment casted me into a future like a worm stuck onto a hook
Like a fiend stuck by the needle
Tracked arms are shamefully aesthetic and a blatant expression of weakness

So in this week of mine
I'm the bait of the gods of bounty
And they're out for fresh containments of artificial ways and cognitive dissonance
I'm en route
Piercing through the naked vulnerability of open air and praying it won't catch the water's downward drop of destiny
In a school of piranhas
Or in a barracuda's bay

A moment I'd come to idealize as the "Symbolic exposition of a home-made, heart-made pulling"
A pulling force unseen but regarded as fact;
The ugly face of truth and her ugly, shrewd way of shuffling before you in a line of no end
In a time of eternal urgency
In one of the Gods' common ever-narrowing hallways

Alternating between lighting the hopeless weed can
And lighting and sucking tendrils of foul-tasting chemical smoke from a stinking old glass bottle
Rigged with a straw and electric tape and a glass oil burner
Cradling felonies
To suffice for your toddler-aged addiction
God, don't they grow up so fast?
Have I yet regressed to a toddler's mind in my pursuit of nothingness?
No
I have, however, taken on the toddler's terrible trait of demanding instant gratification
Downgrading and devaluing myself in the big river of dope, flooding a city near you soon

And this may be wrong because it's wrong
But smoking weed from a can wasn't wrong even if it HAD been wrong cause I didn't feel so doomed to be a player in the game
And even if THAT wasn't my fault
Things today are horrifically left at my fault
And, well... At least I f**king know that.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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