baggage

wilted
like a severed petal
drenched in doubt,
unstettled...
if i wipe the slate
i still perceive the lines
by which i've
become
defined

and phony is how i feel,
or at least unclear as to which is real
or if i'm complicated;
more likely i'm
over-
medicated

numb-
that's where 'it' seems to be
but poppies grow on
dead end streets.
if i cross that line
i don't think there's turning back
because my pile of chances has
dwindled
to the bottom of the
stack

my aces are all gone.
i've put hope where it belongs.
the edges
unravelled
when i traded my chest of
gold for
gravel

while, typically, in lieu of lessons
i'd be reliving
my transgressions
i've shelved the guilt,
intentionally determined to
leave
some walls
unbuilt.