Feel Like A Felon

by Torrence   Jun 23, 2009

I'm feeling like a felon, like a stealer of souls.
All told I bring destruction to my own life, it takes hold
I feel bold, almost like I'm sick of pretending this joy is easy and the pain is ending.
Alone and lost I longingly wander, too many things of life to ponder in this somber memory of a life I'd lived, or sworn I did.
But I can never forgive or forget those days, now nothing more than a haze, some memorial parade to celebrate my lifelong charade.
I remember those days too fondly for them to be true, but I still look in the mirror and think "Damn, I've missed you" to the man there I hardly know. But does it show? This contempt and self loathing forever evolving, the massive indifference to a world that is calling.
I swear I'm not a bad man, but I'm sure I'm no good. It is inevitable, the unenviable condition I find myself in time and time again, wrapped in shame, in sin, in a gilded cage holding me captive in its pseudo safety confines. I chase the thing that shines, it glimmers in the corner of my eye, but head on it blinds, it maims and mortifies this fragile mind, this flesh of mine, so long divorced from space and time.
Am I alone? It feels that way, all day every day alone with my thoughts and grand designs that always fall by the wayside as I am passed on either side by men and women with better dreams than mine, dreams and realities much more closely aligned.
I swear by your voice, your heart, your eyes, that I looked there once to see what I could find, and you said your heart would beat in time with mine, but it ran fast or mine ran slow and I ended up going home alone. But "Hey kid," they say to me, "Life is built on misery, just drop down slowly to your knees, close your eyes and make your pleas." I believe with everything I am, because this seems like a better plan, than whiskey, blow, and Ambien, and it tells me I can start again.
But I feel like a felon, like I am stealing my own soul. Fighting, desperate to hold the weight I can't lift, so tricky any con would be proud of the grift, this gift, stealing from hope a sense of hopelessness.


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