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.