Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

There were times when I plotted the trajectory of my path. Where I’d end up, who I’d meet on the way. When I’ll marry and when I’ll have a child. When my job would take me places. And when I’ll pass on to the great beyond.

Don’t remember what it was like to write down these ideas, marking them up and making them poems. Reading them in front of the mic to an captive audience who heard every word spoken and watched my emotion unravel for their entertainment. All these years living without a map, without a outline. Making friends as I go and falling in love with people who I shouldn’t have even given a second thought.

But there are times when swinging from the noose left for me on the ceiling seems far more captivating than lying in bed wondering where things went south. And there are times when your voice pulls me out of whatever mess I’ve made for myself, and when did I become so dependent. When did I give you my reins?

Dress me how you want to see me. Sell me on the idea that I’m important enough to give a damn about myself. Listen to what these lines say before they’re snorted away.

Is there any reason why I call you up when things get at their worse? Because the swinging from the noose left for me seems far more interesting than dragging this carcass through this life. And maybe there’s a place where I can find some peace, but I highly doubt it. Because there’s so much I want to say, but each time I open my mouth…

…silence and a gasp for air.

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