terrible poetry

“throwing knives”

Chicken livered Indian giver
ain’t got nothing to say;
just lolls around this part of town,
stays in the role that he plays.

Private minding, looking and finding
that the answers all seem the same;
attempts to answer just shimmy like dancers,
or leave like strangers missing names.

One by one the nights run on,
scattered as buckshot through breeze;
no even plane, no way to stay sane,
while the scissors seem ready to please.

Talking at mirrors won’t quiet the fears,
and staring ain’t my kind of thing;
I’d pay for a laugh or some help with the trash
or to know what it means to be king.

Slowly stumbling, stubborn rummaging,
these cigarettes burning too fast;
a lighter held tighter than the fist of a fighter,
‘least there’s flame till we run out of gas.

If my cigarette replied I’d be more than surprised,
to questions about what I’ve got to do;
tomorrow I’ll try with a good-hearted lie
to wake up and make sense of the roux.

Get by like a feather pushed through the weather,
get calm, find some way to see clearer;
until things improve I get in the mood
tossing knives at the guy in the mirror.

For now I’ll take a pass on staring through glass
leave the questions for somebody else;
I’d settle for certainty even in purgatory,
it beats knives tossed by me at myself.

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