Bag Of Tricks…A Poem

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?

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