Never really content, I’m straddled to a
reckoning chair; sitting by a tattooed young lady
in a pink tank top thinking, careening, contemplating
my next steps; dissatisfied with my current job.
Dissatisfied with all the wet ink that dribbles from my
mind, my arm. I’m a southpaw, late bloomer, occasionally
optimistic mostly intrinsic.
I’m not what they want—
they are looking for well dressed, mentally manicured guys.
I’m an artist, freethinker, never stop questioning the
status quo, never stop questioning the ills of this world. Can’t think
of people as numbers, but as living souls with pulsating hearts.
Nobody likes that, until you’re buried and then they realize—
he was a renaissance man, what a loss…
Those realizations are always late.