Old Regrets

A life of crippled measures

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

I don’t regret passing out on crappy whisky
or playing the whore
while fumbling over silver dollar nipples.

Life’s simple pleasures
and crippled measures
were poked into me long
before I knew who I was
and the man I would be.

My life has been a constant dialogue
of microwave ready prayers and bed
squeaking lies.

Each falsehood became my heroin,
like old black tar burned and
marked between my toes.

I shot out, crashing
fast and high and hard,
but I wanted,
needed
each syllable to shred truths,
mangle dreams and
cripple hopes.

Tearing holes into the sides
of their soul and taking
shit was my reward.

I enjoyed feeding their
pain and watering their
humiliation.