This Whiskey Bottle Feels Like a Gun in My Hand.

I wonder why there are things that keep surfacing within my sight:

lonely particles floating in the fluid of my eyeball.  

If I outstretch my hand to touch whatever they are, 

I come back with nothing but phantom pains.  

Give it up already.  

You aren't who you want to be.  

The world that you live in keeps hoisting up a ragged ball of flame to let you see.  

The ex-president doesn't remember tearing any walls down.

The encircled family keeps the media away so as not to ruin the legacy.  

Of ideas.  Of intangible things.  Of wanting it all to be different.  

It won't make you happy.  

If you lined the world's inhabitants 

in a straight arrow 

and let them walk past you single file 

the procession would never end 

because the rate of birth is too high.  

Each time there is a new person put at the end of the line

you see that history is the autobiography of a madman.  

It isn't me doing it.  

It must be something else.  

Risk strolls up to danger and winks a lusty smile.

And there is no crowd in front of the stage.

This won't end but you can choose to think of it differently.

Get out of that head of yours and see for once.