by Caroline Prank
Advocate or addict? Where the hell do I fall in?
I'm really neither nor. I'm the product of a battle that birthed worry in my core. A worrier at heart, with my mouth on my sleeve Maybe it's time I just say what I mean.
When does a poet ever say something straight-forward?
A simile here and there, like a pair of eyes to a stare, and another adaptation of alike alliteration, the temptation; did you see that internal rhyme?
I'm just another lost soul; we sell a double for a dime. Damn, did you hear the line?
I'm like a prostitute for words; I get used and abused.
My own story'll kill me. I'm just destined to lose. I gotta wait for the words, like a patient housewife. Pen in my hand, I'm gonna waste my whole life.
My cards so close, they're a part of my chest.
You've been trying to read me, See the back of my hand. If I play the cards I'm dealt, I put my poker face to test. Hey, cocky king of spades, Hit the jackpot, yet?
Yet, maybe it's time to change;
from what this city has done to me. Now that they're convincing white pickets, to go live in, our broken brick houses.
'Cause see, I've been told, “Better the devil you know, than the one you don’t.”
And with a prayer on your thoughts,
but a curse in your words, I won't be able to pick it, at all. 'Cause when everything goes to hell, you act like you've got God on speed dial.
Talking up Mary Jane,
like she's the pews you keep saying you'll find, at the end of every empty night.
“Sorry” isn't a drug,
but a good enough substitute for substance abuse. Addicted to its phonemic makeup, you superficially love it, but you know you won't commit.
And, you and truth don't rhyme anymore,
finding falsities to spit me, while I'm smelling the smoke in your genes. With you saying, this isn't what it's supposed to be.
Yet, you find yourself doing time, for just a little more.
We're all just addicts, to having our heads tossed around. Even these devils can't hold us down. Dropped from new Heights, hit the ground, overdose, and start again.
Maybe this time, you won't wind up texting your drug dealer at ten, for just another hit, send.