Poetry | Journal

Burning the midnight down to the sacrum,
I can’t remember how it felt to 
create. The way the universe intended,
I can not find the memory at all.
It’s like a notebook torn to the fray,
my head is all soft clouds of, it’s okay.
It’s just okay now. 
I probably owe an apology to a psychiatrist,
so adamant I could argle bargle my way 
out. Of my own mind
and soul after some pseudo peddler 
sold me the metaphor of a strong backbone. 
I bought in with every genuine penny,
doing yoga stretches and weight 
training chasing a life 
changing chiropractic realignment to no end.
The lie that exercise can cure 
chronic pain & disease is what healthy people need 
to believe that they will never end up like me or
like anyone who struggles to get up in the morning. 

There is an addiction epidemic 
presenting in the notion that you may not be wealthy yet
someday you could be 
so it’s best to protect the interests 
of those who are for your potential windfall,
and that tale retold in healthcare’s image
is just that, you may not be sick or yet able to admit it
but if someday you were, you would burn that midnight oil 
until you found healing, a miracle, one in a million. 
It’s so American 
to think you’d do things 
you know nothing about 
different. God could speak through us if only 
we tried harder to embody such devout rectus. 
The affliction is hope, feeding on fear 
that denying it’s potential reflects back a truth 
that is too quiet to bear. 

Let the ashes of my vertebrae stain 
any utterance of those fables. 
There is no enflamed God in our bones
demanding sacrifice for relief.
There is only so much fuel holding you up. 
If you’re going to burn it
do it only for yourself, with whatever you create.