At the very tip of my spine
I can feel the wretched scrunching of my hope
Right before it reaches my skull
My brain can’t even sip it.
My shoulders have no rest,
They rise to my ears in scrutiny of the life before me.
They say, “you should of, could of”
And I say, “I would of”
To no avail, they stay lifted to the sky in pain. I feel like a puppet now.
I could say I hadn’t a clue of what would come or what could of came if I ignored it all, but I knew.
I acknowledged laziness, and the world spun around me like moments seized with no work and all play.
Now, that time has caught up to me.
I’m so stern, so uninviting, and all of the pent up anger seeps out through my pores.
Everyone can smell it on me.
So, some push farther away and some inch and leap forward on top of me.
You would think that my attempt to become equidistant from everyone would prevail.
But everyone wants to know and everyone has something to say and no one understands, but they’re all looking in on the show.
And, mostly, I just wish I was mute
Because to explain a story is to ruin it
And all of the pieces don’t yet fit.
No matter how much I keep hoping for an alternate ending,
I keep pushing in the opposite direction,
Opposing myself in the most forceful way,
Thinking I’m taking the path of least resistance,
But there is no relief here.
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