A Phantom’s Eulogy

Griffin L. Smith

This is but a melodic mistake. 
Awaking from my psychotic break, 
I tense up, disturbed and confused. 
I just know evil is amused. 

My brain zaps, quakes, and shakes 
like a spear jolted through daybreak. 
Of the events, what am I to make? 
Okay. It all started from a handshake. 

Then it led to disaster. 
Don’t call the forecaster 
for this hurricane of events. 
I can’t set this precedent. 

I suppose when it rains, it pours. 
God can open and close the doors, 
but I feel like I’m losing. 
So, who’s really keeping the scores? 

They tried to write me off, 
but I didn’t write back. 
I wish I could claim that line, 
but it came from a quarterback. 

I keep trusting in myself and failing, 
up all night and still not prevailing. 
It’s often that I feel like bailing. 
A letter of surrender is what I feel like mailing. 

Maybe it’s best if I stop now, 
calm down, take a look around. 
Will I be a One Hit Wonder? 
I’ve got to make a new sound. 

Let’s drink some water, take a few breaths. 
Let’s sit in a chair and watch the fire rest. 
Let’s open up the holy book and read what’s good, 
and reinvent ourselves like God knew we would. 

I’ve spent a lot of time in prayer 
in a dark room with a pen in my hair 
under the light of a candle flare, 
taking some long overdue self-care. 

You don’t deserve it, 
but the pain is worth it. 
The devil wrote you a letter. 
You’ve just got to burn it.