So this is what it feels like when blood
comes, rushing to the head
and when you can’t hear anymore,

thinking how to get right side up,
like a black bold arrow to the sky,
and it would seem I know how to get back up

and not stay on my head the whole time
being tortured, strained and tormented,
without any help from ones who love me.

So this is what it’s like to taste your own
medicine and taste the pure
bitterness that stains my tongue black

and try to spit the scum out of my
salivating mouth, drooling and spitting,
cursing and weeping as if there were no tomorrow.

But I think to myself there really
will not be another tomorrow, the way that
I have been living with my head in the sand,

thinking about the past and what, what I could
have done, was there something?
It seems as if I never do anything right

in my own mixed up head and land
where I call my own where I make the rules,
except the rules I have made I do not admire

cheating, lying, stealing, playing—
love-hating, self-despising things,
the rules are hated by the creator:

to the future we must look forward,
and never look back. For if you do
it’s only hurt you will look at.