They know that I am here,
that I am standing here.
They know that I smoke Marlboro lights.
They know that I drink but never
too much.
They know that I can count on two
two hands, my friends.
They know that my acquaintances are
as infinite as the stars
in the clear, purple skies.
They know that I am dropping
out but not why really.
They know that I write but not
of my motif.
They know my oldest brother and
my youngest and that
the other does not care.
They know my dog, Duke, but
not what I feel for him.
They know I take the tabs but they
do not know why.
They know not my head as they
know themselves.
Their reflection projects on
me and they know
my name.
Published by Ziggy Mang
I write because the thoughts would otherwise
bleed through my head. I do not know if I am
ambitious anymore, I would just like to tell
everyone that since people like to think all
else. Everyone should be ambitious but I can
never feel it in me forever; every time I go
to sleep it seems like I just wake up, not a
dream or image comes to my mind except these
stale moments where everything I was the day
before becomes erased. The poems and stories
I write are who I am. They are the only bits
of myself that I can keep from each day. Its
not amnesia but I lose my head or else I can
see these thoughts bleeding through my head.
Can't you see that? Everyone else thinks I'm
crazy but I do know I am no oddity or artist
just that I am breathing words that can make
sense even if the images seem blurry or dim.
View all posts by Ziggy Mang
ANTHOLOGY OF A POLTROON 