I can not be plural.

Nervously I confiscate beats in this propaganda’d mind
that rests on a twisting pole fastened atop burdened shoulders,
weight, fracture, melody, drum, kick, flow,
movements ease past breakpoints and stare passed misty eyes and
malnutritioned passions,
mouth off to air if you think it helps,
conceited; you look like everyone else to me,
judgmental jewels around your wrist neck
that holds your small head in minimal thought patterns,
daylight and missed steps draw upon cracks in the
how’s her back doing these days, anyway?
resting cases in juried sheets that the cold holds dear
as the body shivers from entering,
this sums it all up,
5+ worry and 18x alright doesn’t get us numerically closer in any respect,
lead me on towards winters chill and the moons soft mist,
because clinging to dusty walls only begs of handshakes
that fall flat and stiff,
for, I am the one sitting and writing in the early AM,
borrowing time from the early arrival of the sun, the light,
fingers weary, yet, thoughts vomiting in type,
iridescent bulbs flicker and annoy,
but I am just one,
in the singular, boy…


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