Shotgun Mouthwash - Poem by Nic Custer
I signed my name
once again and
lost another part of myself.
Because these ink drops bind
my blood and my days
to one more of a thousand
soon to be half-tread paths
that I'm more than willing
to stumble down. And I
have to laugh as I
look back and remember
my naive fears that
time was wasting away.
The years defined by
T.V. family life and
far away worlds.
Days in pursuit of
escaping a world
all to near
and a family still breathing
down my neck.
I visited Seseme Street,
fought for the Power Rangers,
helped resolve the Family Matters and
learned how stay live forever.
I began scheduling my daytime acceptance
and feeding my primetime isolation.
Allowing a thin, insulated cable
to carry with it my skewed
sense of belonging. But it was
never long before time was wasted
as I hid from the risks and adventures
thoughtlessly committed by failed friends
(who never failed me but were, themselves,
betrayed one time too many) in the malicious
innocence of boyhood. I spent the same wasted
time insulating my head and my chest with
insecurity and choking pain until I decided it
was time to breath.
So I tore out in a million directions,
falling to a million pieces in order
to become whole.
No longer wasting time, but quickly wasting away.
Alone in a crowd of obligaitions,
rather than alone with the insane notion
that I was living a sane life.
Weeks are now spent maddening myself,
happiness sadly staring me down as I
lower my eyes and nose to the grindstone.
I'm rapidly shrinking from the world by
immersing myself in it.
Sipping my personal poison of responsibiities
too great to carry, yet too small to matter.
So with peace uneasily looming overhead,
I close my eyes and let the pen
plead my self-destruction,
let my hand sign my
name to another obligation, while
I blindly choke back the fear that
my time is wasting.
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