the streets inside

Sometimes it’s lonely inside. It’s quiet, and loud. There’s not a footstep, but these echos of sound, you walk without shadows, the sun rises at night, a strange fog obscures the moonlight, and in this twilight daze you start to not recognize your own face. Then there’s the chase. You find yourself attacked from every corner, masked thieves appear marching in order and its like those movies where the faster you run and the slower they walk, well, its just a lost case. Roots pop up in front of your foot out of freakin nowhere and as soon as your head hits the ground, they’ve got you, sharp objects of death with an eternal slow-motion, coming down. They enter you even before they break the skin – heart rate jumps of a cliff, hands begin trembling, eyes dart wildly, and now you’re panting. You hear yourself muttering falsities and excuses or words you’d never thought you’d use and thinking of only one thing: escape. And you tell yourself your legs are strong cause they carried you through the last time around and you’re off and running, miles with each step. Until you hit a wall. And deflect. It’s not my fault. But inside you know it was, you know you should have been better, should have been nicer, should have been stronger, weaker, prettier, stupider, smarter, softer, louder, more reserved, more tempered, more insistent, more revolutionary, less wary, more critical, less cheap, more honest, more deep, more self-respecting, less denigrating, but you can’t stop this monsoon of attacking and you stagger back against a wall, your cornered now soon to fall and your only thought at all is how the hell I got here; Yesterday I felt so tall. But things aren’t always what they seem and if I look good on the outside, you better ask to see my dreams cause our world of violence always seeps in to the darkest, moistest, rottenest places within. // I don’t know who shot who near my cornerstore. I had no answer to give the cop at my door. I don’t buy crack and I won’t lie that I know those who do by face and not by name. It’s a shame. And I can’t count all the needy eyes I pass each day in disguise as a good person, but a closed one who wears her lies on the inside. White walls and clicking heels signal we don’t care to see what’s real. Yet my support to local causes can’t relieve internal nausea cause no matter how many broken faces I say I love, its not mine to give. And with that god-emulating, self-deprecating charading, the violence inside will always live.
(november 19)

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