Bag of Tricks
I stepped out of bed this morning
half awake, half baked from the night before
I stumbled on something cold on the floor
it was my bag of tricks, my strokes and licks,
the things that bring a string of dicks
to my bed, inside my head, a way to shed
the memory of love lost and the fucked up,
strung out emotional cost of being rejected;
I stood there dejected, my mind infected
with the disease of waste, and the total,
irretrievable loss of taste for the finer facets
of a man’s heart, the healing warmth
of his tender embrace, the notion that
love doesn’t tear women apart.
I look in the mirror and vomit my sorrow
paying homage to another empty tomorrow
I wipe the vomit from my face and I pace
and I pace until there’s a trace of blood
leaving footprints there on the rug and
I shrug, feeling smug in the fantasy world
I’ve invented: the poor, drunken
soul tormented, demented, playing the part of the
broken hearted, bit by a bitch who
wisely departed; call me sick, call me
slick, it’s just a damned trick that fell
out of the bag of a stag feeling stung
by a bad whiskey jag
I fall back in bed, is this all in my head,
or has every damned ounce of my dignity fled?
