Some are born with
a silver spoon.
I was born with
a golden noose.
Ties around me,
like a leash,
from room to room,
it follows me.

If we’re all God’s children,
then, here’s my retort:
Where, oh, where is Mommy’s
child support?
At least thirty-six virgins
belong to her,
and if women are man’s bone,
make a brothel slash rib-cage!

A sterile man holding his breath
has no heir.
If the bar is an orphan,
then I’m here to raise it.
Because my mind’s a safe,
I think I’ve cracked.
Sanity, I see,
highest shelf,
out of reach,
my grip
on reality.

With the long end of a wish bone,
I cop a wasteful plea,
to slice through all my ailments
and bring myself back to me.
But my wish goes unanswered,
like the prayer’s of a killer,
trying to hide away a body,
so that I only have my mind.

Unbutton my skin,
stuff it under the bed
and only just be me.
But, yet,
the world’s filled with me’s,
me’s everywhere,
me’s two’s,
me’s three’s,
am I the only one?

My light’s are out,
but everyone’s home,
playing in the dark,
screaming at the top of our lungs.
Neighbors call the cops,
adjacent buildings,
close by houses,
a vacant lot
yet voices roam.

I’m authentic;
certifiable.
And my own thoughts,
unreliable.
Narrator, omnipresent,
I know nothing,
but I know everything about it.

If my noose were to leave,
it’s in truth, I believe,
it doesn’t mean
the damage wasn’t done,
and I’m not already dead.