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Testified

configuring words on a page
does not make me an artist
yes
but,

an extremely bored creatively
inspired

patron.

Questioning my own
flamboyant character—

Unwavering in this instability,
I’m finding it conceivable
to stand at the crossroads for an entire life
—the epitome of indecision;

“She’s not very good with guys.”
I hear them remark in the light of the bar.

My hair curls under the heat of fluorescent
glares:
feline cats turn their backs on one another
in heart beats,

Fostering in their lurid contempt—
their resolute faith in resentment—
is it hate
or a weakness in self, esteem?

innocence:
the only gift we are given;

as we lose innocence
we lose strength—

downing one last car bomb
I trip and stumble upon exit.

blood, guinness & gravel, I
cry to make salt to cleanse
the fear:
the price of our instrument—

this foul chip in my head that
makes me think so arrogantly

but every instrument is a weapon
if you hold it right.

poem by S./j. Goldner
Added by Poetry Lover
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