PERILOUS LACK OF KNOWING MY ME
Knocked from my porch pedestal again.
Fuck it, what’s another chip in my alabastard skin.
I can always stand myself up
but getting back on that damn pedestal…
was never a place I wanted to be,
who put me up there anyway?
Oh the fleeting look at fame’s fortune.
Yes that was it, then it felt deserved.
I always cringe as I crawl back up there
to find myself rocking it as I search
sealed pockets for something,
a cigarette, a lighter,
a new life for my heart of stone.
Then as soon as I know it—reality crashes in again
and there’s another broken piece
of me laying unattached to the solidity of I.
Much better if I am pedestaled
to be stasis, motionless, instead of
one of those fidgety creatures of creation
that is ugly enough to be beautiful
I should try to be more grounded
and not play on pedestals (anymore).
© M Durfee