Dress Shoes

I sat in the pit, on the hill,
In the dark with dress shoes,
With more clues,
With no sunset to remember,
With no pain to carry,
With paranoia to take its
Picture, for its flash to give me
A seizure, for my life to stay dirty,
No tuxedo, no rescue flag, no
Standing in the stag, ready for
Your battle, for our friendship
Faded, you got jaded, I am back
Now, but then wasn’t there for you,
For dad had groceries and mercenaries,
And lived in arbitrage—in his massage
Of a head, in the rubbing of the dead,
He was a greeter, a beggar, a life wager—
My wages were death—
He did just survive,
And I could not thrive,
For boyhood is my curse,
Puberty blues,
Adolescent confusion,
Am I a man in dress shoes,
Facial hair with no razor,
A smooth edged fader,
A electric shock,
To live in trash,
To feed on it,
Dress shoes with
Dirty socks, with
Empty rocks—with
No house to build on—
In the bathtub,
Bottle of wine,
Drunken flavor,
Still a sunken west
Coast dream,
Dress shoes please,
Khaki dreams
Cargo pockets,
With no possessions,
With no headdresses,
Or signet signatures,
With your permission,
I will leave the admission,
The show will be over,
Depression will be gone,
Life will not kill me,
Will make me stronger,
I will die today if truth doesn’t
Change me,
Then I will stay dead,
And die in these dress shoes,
For the outside will perish,
What is real will last—
The appearance and the form
Is the new norm—
If you dress up you are
Still a mess up, a fool,
A broken tool bent towards
Destruction—and on that
Hill there was no thrill,
There was dress shoes,
At 3am, dead in sin,
But alive in Him—
I just did not know it

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