Late Pass For The Bed Sheetz

Sunlight beaming from the most high.
Leaves dance against the wind with nonchalant strides.
Grass fields cover all of Earth’s blemishes while being stomped by soles of a lost mind.
And I,
Have no other choice but to soak it in.
Wearing a smile while I mold visions of peace,
Flowing with some ink,
Loading in a beat,
In mind,
As I grow within my tragic stories…

Until it hits an hour passed midnight as the clock ticks.
Gates closing after smoking trees creating fogs with,
The sole intention to forget the walls while I’m feeling boxed in a hell hole full of blues…

Badges and metal detectors for an iron will I’ve meddled with in truth.
Forced to settle into systems meant to keep you in a loop.
Embezzling each bit of hope from a heart’s bleeding wounds.
Deterrents who would stare into your soul while they stand with a sly grin inside of their 3-piece suits.
To them,
I am just “number 119” as I take a backward glance at them on my way to my room.
No chance to escape if I want to keep my head under a roof.
God forbid I stage an act to be on stage before I’m kicked out for missing curfew.
Greetings are reduced to a fist full of silence just until their checks are due.
Running away back to what saved me doesn’t seem so bad when you have too much to lose.
Park views are not enough for a soul hungry to break away for the bottle of booze,
Wrapped in our palms for the wrong reasons when we aim for our Darkness to boot…

Got to love New York City shelters when you’re on the other side of their sign in sheets.
Sitting as comfy as possible while those hurt enter without a second to breathe.
The more We!
Check in,
The more checks they receive in the name of the pain you currently bleed.
Walking in their flip flops on the job while those in need flip flop from box to box to find a bed where they can sleep.
It’s exhausting!,
Looking for a place you can call home,
For once,
In a life that’s given you a glass half full to see through…

Who am I lose my cool and act out in a scene with guards ready to slam your wrists into cuffs,
No fisticuffs unless I want my ankles shackled in a cell for me to bust out of.
Funny enough,
I’m trapped in a smart phone as my only means of desertion for my inner child crying for months on end…

The clock ticks,
While you hear,
Your times up!
As your counselor hands you the slip.
“What the f is this!”
You scream while putting on your shirt and tie for the job you’ve finally landed.
“Good Luck!”
They say,
Even if it’s the curb of the street you are handed…

What am I to do?
What am I to do with a rhythm crawling up my spine with a vengeance?
Trying to figure out why I put my pen down and quit spreading my message.
No matter how dead I felt in this road of repentance.
Surging through my fingertips forcing me to have my life properly written with a sentence,
Or two,
In the name of my successions.
I fled!
Far from imprisonment in broken down insane asylums given to minorities treated like peasants…

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