Love is the drug
that opiates me nowadays
to fend through this morass
of doing what’s to do.
Love and Nicotine,
not pen and paper,
heart and dreams
laid out, a mindsong
to read.
a cling-to-my-sanity Love,
no Woodstock peace and
fuck-your-neighbor crap.
“She’s an Angel
of the first degree…”
And while I grip my head
to quell my own rising laughter
at my inability
to find a self-esteem,
I pray to the mirrors
of other people
who find worth in me.
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