configuring words on a page <br />does not make me an artist <br />yes <br />but, <br /> <br />an extremely bored creatively <br />inspired <br /> <br />patron. <br /> <br />Questioning my own <br />flamboyant character— <br /> <br />Unwavering in this instability, <br />I’m finding it conceivable <br />to stand at the crossroads for an entire life <br />—the epitome of indecision; <br /> <br />“She’s not very good with guys.” <br />I hear them remark in the light of the bar. <br /> <br />My hair curls under the heat of fluorescent <br />glares: <br />feline cats turn their backs on one another <br />in heart beats, <br /> <br />Fostering in their lurid contempt— <br />their resolute faith in resentment— <br />is it hate <br />or a weakness in self, esteem? <br /> <br />innocence: <br />the only gift we are given; <br /> <br />as we lose innocence <br />we lose strength— <br /> <br />downing one last car bomb <br />I trip and stumble upon exit. <br /> <br />blood, guinness & gravel, I <br />cry to make salt to cleanse <br />the fear: <br />the price of our instrument— <br /> <br />this foul chip in my head that <br />makes me think so arrogantly <br /> <br />but every instrument is a weapon <br />if you hold it right.<br /><br />s./j. goldner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/testified/
