“Gosh, I hate being in this lane!” Move over people! I have enough trouble not tripping over my own feet. Get out of my way! Efficiency obviously does not mean a thing to any of you. I’m just trying to get to Sea Isle, paradise, home. You mfs swerving into my.. Halting my uprising. I will not have it. I’ll pack my bags and focus on me. Trust me, that’s going to leave you out here all on your own. Maybe, falling back and watching the world evolve without you is your goal. Dam truckers, mofo’s riding mopeds, cyclists, pardon my engine revving. There’s no question spotting my ascension. Forget mentioning my immaturity, I was locked down trying to put her first. I was dam well near murdered for whispering her name. IT’s cool now because, now actually making progress includes dusting my shoulders and moving forward in silence. No one needs to wet their panties hearing me recycle the rust on the bars I trust more than these dead men walking. It’s divine, my time coming so hard and them not being able to say a word of congratulations without applauding me “stepping wrong.” Ma’am, today I’ll call you Fran. I couldn’t give enough dams for these suckers to find something better to do. They think I’m going backwards when I’m lapping them all and waving goodbye when I pass them yet again. The rules of this highway, my road revolve around thinking with your head and never letting insecure bishes interfere with organic frustrations, calling out horrible class clowns/ teachers, muttering, getting paid for sweat on my brow and being ok with occasionally being the “bad guy” in her story, her story and hers. Not mentioning names gets them all looking at their horoscopes wondering is it their equinox hiding or is it me not fearing them having meltdowns and calling to get me institutionalized. I’ll bench you, bish! I’ll flex then oil my muscles with your tears. Stop making me put my heart in detention. I’m hitting double digits counting the girls that wanted me to possibly propose. One day, I’ll be free, mama. One day it will be you and me stomping on these moles acting like they have executive authority on my future. I’m probably their last best hope anyways. Everybody’s getting butthrt dealing with facts of life. I have marinating flavoring ready for basting. They don’t want real ones getting recognized, that’s all! I’m re entering the court like Allen. All I want to do is ball. Yes, they hate when I rededicate my heaves and ho’s back to delivering bouquets of roses. I write that itch I can’t scratch poetry on the regular. They’re just jealous of you and wish their “man” would swoon them once in awhile, and write ballads professing what they mean to those who love them incompletely. Stay whittling sticks, pricks I’m refocused on love and waiting patiently, moving at my own speed. If we never move forward on the same page, that’s fine. I tried my best to fit myself in the round hole. Yet, here I am still trying. https://poetizer.com/poem/958760068
