I am a schooner dropping anchors in lost

harbors of my soul, searching for a crew to raise

my sails, so we can set out to sea beyond the

shores where locusts feed on shopping malls,

where they delve deep into the designer

clothes of each other, rising as one single mind

credit card maxed out, where they feed the cellulite

of boredom Ritalin to control their misguided

children as their eyes are cemented as one

across five hundred channels, absorbing

the numbing sensations of a slow precise

suicide of degenerative candy.

I am that ship sailing past the burning

beaches of indecision, toiling in the crow’s nest

wishing for safe harbor amongst my own,

where I can pull myself down from my mast and

tread upon terra firma devoid of

bumper car parking, where self-righteous flies no

longer claim immunity from the hypocrisy of

shit that sleeps between their sheets.

I am this ship that has left ports of

indoor skiing, where the children of self-

mutilation have left scars about their wrists

that have bled my tears dry, where I can no

longer supply their comfort in my galley,

such that my plank faces west and I the east

searching for a new horizon by leaving

this lost existence behind.