Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
That's not to say there's nothing right about me.
But the room says otherwise—
chairs scattered like witnesses,
a quiet testimony that I wrestled my inner man last night
and nobody won.
My life is a knot of small lies
and the ghosts of promises I withdrew
before they matured.
I am an unbalanced man,
with no strong belief in myself.
Like the boring book on my shelf
that no visitor ever opens.
My spirit went into a casket long ago,
and my feelings—
they've been sitting on the kitchen counter
in a plastic basket,
waiting to be claimed.
Sometimes I have the audacity
to think about resurrections.
But even hope needs rent money.
And those poor barmaids have families to feed.
I, on the other hand,
have thoughts to forget.
I am not that poor.
My small bedsitter has been a ghost town
for most of its existence.
I've been betrayed and left,
but it's the only Samaritan
that takes me in
when I am too loud for myself.
Thieves pass my door with doubt—
they know there's nothing worth stealing.
So security is not a chapter in my worries.
I wear an expensive watch on my wrist,
but I have no time
for a decent breakfast.
I am running late.
Don't be foolish enough to think it's for work.
I have a hangover to silence
before it stages a protest in my head.
I don't like keeping words long
when there's a bar to find.
So I step out.
Now I walk the streets alone.
I remember dancing here a few nights back—
or maybe I'm lying.
I staggered more than I danced.
My feet remember better than my pride.
I see flies whispering on the pavement.
No doubt that's where I donated
a portion of last night's barbeque.
Bars multiply when I have money in my pocket.
They appear generously,
like friends who smell weakness.
So here I go.
I place an order—
not ambitious, but honest.
I pay the price
and borrow a taste of glory.
Through broken sunlight and long shadows,
come what may,
I remain what I am:
An unbalanced man.