Oh, The Sting Or This Rusty Razor - Poem by Chris Taylor
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The Great Plains Poet, living proof that “the rains falls upon the just and unjust”.
Oh, The Sting Of This Rusty Razor
a poem by Chris T.
I feel its dragging and the pulling across my undulating face.
This tool with no leading edge, no trimming relief.
My fortune is challenged by the economy of my day
And I am left with the sting of this lone rusty razor.
Thirteen days until I receive more pay,
An eternity of pensive waiting;
Like the rush of counting each grain of sand that falls through the hour glass,
But, armed with the knowledge that it will move no faster, and have no concern of my schedule.
I’ve combed every bargain and sifted through many pages of print,
To find the gems that I still can’t afford but still need to produce.
The sweat tumbles downs my brow as the lines deepen engraving into my forehead, more experience and a weathered look.
Succumbing to the realization that I am not really my family’s provider.
I look, I search, I gleam, anything I can, anywhere I go,
In the all-consuming effort to replenish my hardened heart with the words of a savior’s love.
Pain, misery, toil, disbelief and anguish are the bones of which I chew on ’til my next meal.
Yet, I am still the herald, the trailblazer and the burden carrier for my family and it’s condition.
So many things pull at the heart of a mans ego,
As the octopus’s arms become more difficult to remove.
Left cheek, right cheek, a strike to the gut are the little deflections,
That will come to make a chaste man, less effective and totally spent in spirit.
This morning I read about a man named Job,
All that was lost and the puss laden shard of pottery that did scrape the boils.
And as I search for more green paper to keep the wolves at bay,
I continue to use this month-old razor across the face the almighty did design.
Oh, the sting of this rusty razor,
And the sting of this time in my life.
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