Live it
Senses Of A Crime |
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Even though the essence of Spring
May have dressed that morning's air,
I could not smell it.
My nose was a faucet.
Eyes runny,
Vision blurry.
The taste of Spring's dew,
A memory I could not relive that day.
Fingertips were sandpaper grit
On any body part I touched.
My bones,
Frail tent poles
Supporting the building of my skin
As it fought to collapse.
I only wish it were the flu.
But it was my sickness,
Letting me know I needed a fix.
The sun had erased the May clouds,
Making way for blue warmth
On that serene day.
Your weatherman would call it,
"Pick of the week!"
People flocked by,
Headed to the beach, the shopping mall, the spa,
Each with a story,
None like mine,
Each with a destination,
All of us a reason to fight time.
But that very reason,
Separated me from them.
They weren't aware that such lost souls could even share
Their roadways.
Our plan,
Was grab and go.
We'd done it a hundred times,
Each with less and less remorse.
Less and less care.
3 of us stood,
All not well,
Needing to get right,
So taking belongings
That didn't belong to me,
Was the obvious answer.
Its the same answer my dad had,
When it came to my childhood.
The first leg of the plan
Went to plan,
We ran in, scanned,
Tricky scammers with
Sticky hands
That jammed
High ticket things
Down the leg of my pants,
One eye open for security,
The other sensing anything in my glance
That could quickly be turned to dope money.
The rush
Is something that starts in my neck,
And works its way down.
Its that feeling like you’re going over a hill and you get that swoosh feeling in your stomach.
The stealing in and of itself was a high.
But that high plummeted faster than the '08 stock market,
When things went drastically wrong with our plan.
Even though the essence of gun powder,
May have dressed that afternoon's air,
I could not smell it.
My nose was a faucet.
Eyes runny,
Vision blurry,
But even with clouded sight,
I could make out burgundy blood splattered across the floor.
Even if I could not taste Spring's dew,
My tongue could not mistake the presence of death,
As my accomplice knocked on heaven's door.
My fingertips,
Were sandpaper grit,
And all I could think was how to use it
To get his prints
Off of everything,
So he wouldn't be dismissed from earth with guilt.
His bones,
Were broken tent poles,
They lay crooked,
His skin draped over them,
Like canvas after a hurricane.
The sound from that day is a permanent stain,
A blotched spot ingrained in my mainframe,
A reminder,
A blunt and harsh decider,
To stop treating life as a game.
And yet,
I went out and got high,
Right away.
Because that sickness,
Needed to be fixed,
And this ridiculousness,
So hideous,
Yet cunning and insidious,
Something that's
It's inside many of us,
Death's flame disintegrating us,
Insinuating just causes,
Leading to rough losses,
Like this one.
Yet it's here today,
Gone tomorrow,
And it's like I never sensed it.
May have dressed that morning's air,
I could not smell it.
My nose was a faucet.
Eyes runny,
Vision blurry.
The taste of Spring's dew,
A memory I could not relive that day.
Fingertips were sandpaper grit
On any body part I touched.
My bones,
Frail tent poles
Supporting the building of my skin
As it fought to collapse.
I only wish it were the flu.
But it was my sickness,
Letting me know I needed a fix.
The sun had erased the May clouds,
Making way for blue warmth
On that serene day.
Your weatherman would call it,
"Pick of the week!"
People flocked by,
Headed to the beach, the shopping mall, the spa,
Each with a story,
None like mine,
Each with a destination,
All of us a reason to fight time.
But that very reason,
Separated me from them.
They weren't aware that such lost souls could even share
Their roadways.
Our plan,
Was grab and go.
We'd done it a hundred times,
Each with less and less remorse.
Less and less care.
3 of us stood,
All not well,
Needing to get right,
So taking belongings
That didn't belong to me,
Was the obvious answer.
Its the same answer my dad had,
When it came to my childhood.
The first leg of the plan
Went to plan,
We ran in, scanned,
Tricky scammers with
Sticky hands
That jammed
High ticket things
Down the leg of my pants,
One eye open for security,
The other sensing anything in my glance
That could quickly be turned to dope money.
The rush
Is something that starts in my neck,
And works its way down.
Its that feeling like you’re going over a hill and you get that swoosh feeling in your stomach.
The stealing in and of itself was a high.
But that high plummeted faster than the '08 stock market,
When things went drastically wrong with our plan.
Even though the essence of gun powder,
May have dressed that afternoon's air,
I could not smell it.
My nose was a faucet.
Eyes runny,
Vision blurry,
But even with clouded sight,
I could make out burgundy blood splattered across the floor.
Even if I could not taste Spring's dew,
My tongue could not mistake the presence of death,
As my accomplice knocked on heaven's door.
My fingertips,
Were sandpaper grit,
And all I could think was how to use it
To get his prints
Off of everything,
So he wouldn't be dismissed from earth with guilt.
His bones,
Were broken tent poles,
They lay crooked,
His skin draped over them,
Like canvas after a hurricane.
The sound from that day is a permanent stain,
A blotched spot ingrained in my mainframe,
A reminder,
A blunt and harsh decider,
To stop treating life as a game.
And yet,
I went out and got high,
Right away.
Because that sickness,
Needed to be fixed,
And this ridiculousness,
So hideous,
Yet cunning and insidious,
Something that's
It's inside many of us,
Death's flame disintegrating us,
Insinuating just causes,
Leading to rough losses,
Like this one.
Yet it's here today,
Gone tomorrow,
And it's like I never sensed it.
Other recommended poems based on this one: I AM THE ME YOU SEE | STRENGTH | STREET CORNER SCUM BAG
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