Like a song
played on an
out of tune
guitar,
like store front
city streets
in dying
southern towns,
like green
hand picked
tattoos blurred-
distorted by time ,
the thoughts
that twist
and wrench
through my head
some nights.
Like a newborn pony
I walk uneasy
on shaking legs-
one a.m.
two a.m.
five and six.
I am a dervish,
I paint,
I write,
I cry.
This is what
it is like,
this is my
burden.
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