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if
I could just make you laugh
I’ll
get another day
to
be alive
to try and try
as
I always try
not
to be defined
my
instincts say
material
longing doesn’t last
as
long as joy does
in
the soul
so
I gather my madness instead
and
gutter-fill the rainbows
sole
cushion-ing purpose
to
cat-foot it all
into
a slow burning hollow
of
my humanity
who
am I
why
instincts
again
protect
what serves me
a
good night’s sleep
when
there is always
someone
caged
someone
dying
and
someone
subjugated
to might
even
the ink
in
this pen
eats
my motivations
I
am so willing
not
to be
just
to provide
you
with entertainment
with
an escape
I
am the bridge
between
paying attention
and
paying another bill
come
due between
you
and surrender
you
watch me
fighting
myself
so
willing to play
the
fool that everyone needs
so
afraid to die alone
I
am willing to risk it all
to
make you laugh
for
another day
I
make myself
whatever
you want
whatever
you define
in
the dark
for
comfort and
a
ring of keys
to
open the eyes
along
the way
noses
are perfect thieves
they
smell those willing
to
laugh beyond reason
beyond
the bent circuses
of
twisting priorities to fit
what
you can carry
in
this modernity
we
call progress
this
life
we
call a milliard names
our
humanity
screaming
at hurtled speeds
is
an answer to
an
expectation of finality
in
an infinite need
it
seems we only want
to
plant the first flag
to
be the first to walk here
to
be the first to drink
this
water
but
I know better
as
the soul is such
an
odd filter
such
an off kilter grace
that
all I ever seek
is
an empty and
open
space
as
we race
I
paint my scabs
to
pick the fantasies
that
bleed best in
the
on-the-go-mouths
that
are feeding
the
keeping up with the jones
there
are no masterpieces
in
the wired world
there
are only reflections
and
the repeated choruses
the
tin can sounds of every
what
used to be
of
everything we hold onto
as
some sort of salvation
sentiment
and nostalgia
capture
the market conditions
and
we are sold renditions
of
Heaven again and again
in
traffic light swan songs
we
play to paint nature
on
the four walls
we
surround comfort with
this
way we don’t see
the
garbage mountains
or
the reasons to let go
and
walk past the corpses
that
we see in the mirror
you
see, we read everything written
so
we can depend on a belief
inside
the sentence structure
and
cadent sounds of language
we
string along hope
with
words like fiction
sand-papering
free will gone awry
smoothing
ourselves
at
the change of seasons
to
keep killing ourselves
in
fields that ripen
with
life enough
to
keep questioning
who
am I
to
keep you laughing
for
bread and my silence
and
another day bargaining
revolution
and evolution
for
escape and the utmost reach
that
skinned bones can stretch into
another
tomorrow that might not
want
to know who we are anymore
EJR
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