Counterfeit.

There’s a feeling that accompanies –
the blood that begins to flow through these,
mud-red, blood pumping veins of my body –
anytime that I allow myself to recall certain things;
a feeling that forms a layer over everything –
that envelopes down to the core of my very being,
that swallows whole – the sunshine’s glow –
and will leave my achy mind like a fishing line’s reeling;
this feeling counterparts my glee –
and takes away the joy from anything left to be,
it riddles me with shame and the first name of the guilty –
and washes me clean in my own fucked up memories;
there is a watchful set of eyes looking over me –
day and night, anytime I look I can see them glistening,
tearing up to cry about the things I shouldn’t need –
lamenting for my losses and my counterfeit winnings;
there’s a trick played by the light endlessly on me –
a trick that keeps the surface break just barely out of reach,
that continuously haunts my days and nights relentlessly –
reminding that there is no kill switch that turns off this machine;
if I reach the decision and set my mind to its finality –
there’s always someone there to try and stand up stupidly,
this creates another monster to be born, and then unleashed –
wreak havoc on the roadblock before climbing back inside of me;
welcomed through the threshold by those similar, genetically –
celebrated through paper lantern concessions and gluttonous feasts,
a party to be had for every time that I’ve been trampled under feet –
a burial site that gives birth to new light with every new morning.

Go ahead...say somethin'!

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