Stepping Back


It’s strange
How many steps you took
To look the same.
The same hate,
The same ghosts,
In that strange place,
In that headspace,
In that
You call a brain.

But look at me.
Who am I talking to?
A roiling kettle
Pointing ladles
Calling pots black
I’ve fallen back
Just the same.

An addict
At war with pain.
Guilty card carrying
Extended warranties
Underlined with

It’s not some game.
We don’ get to
Flip tables
Collect our cards
And walk away.

Always the same.
That burden.
So heavy
We feel our feet sway.
Leaving us
Grieving the circumference
Where we lost our way.

Out of control.
Lost souls
Floating around our lives
Beneath falling stars
And crumbling carapace skies.

And the lies
We tell ourselves
To feel okay.
Extreme saturation
In mood swings
Desperate for change.

And maybe I,
Ought not look to you,
Fettered by strange knots
Laced through
The holes in our shoes.

But this is what we do.
Fastened in cycles
Blaming one another
For what we came to.



About St Basil Z Fish

Curator of the strange and incredibly awkward. A rambling writer with the misguided notion he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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