The Ballad of an Escape Artist

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The Ballad of an Escape Artist

You will wake early in the morning after a night of drinking, because your body won’t let you sleep late, breathe the breath of too many cigarettes and regret.

Like always, after a night of indulgence, you will hold a quiet hatred for yourself. The day will be melancholy.

You will hide, veer away from deep conversation,

be unsure of everything about your life and the people in it.

You know, what is it about that girl who’s in love with you?

Why can’t you let her in?

And why didn’t you follow through on those dreams

you believed in so much until self-doubt took over?


In five years will you be sitting somewhere,

thinking of these days and how they needed to happen for the greater good,

or will they still at that time not be far enough away from you.

Will you still be living there, in that purgatory,

waking up and feeling sorry three days out of seven?


Perhaps an old friend will approach you,

put his hand on your shoulder, shake your hand and buy you a beer.

Maybe he’ll ask about that girl you were seeing,

and you’d answer quickly, “She moved away.” She moved away.

But you’d know, even as you spoke these words,

that you were the one who moved away.

You couldn’t be held responsible for loving someone.

You had your own life to worry about.

With love there were all those little things you had to remember.

Girls were too sensitive.

You didn’t call them for a few days and they’d get emotional.


It was an effort, being in love. it was easy to spend time with friends who knew you better,

who accepted your quirks and addictions without question.

You didn’t have to explain anything to them unless you wanted to.

It was easy to just believe that’s all there was to life-

doing what you wanted on a day to day basis. Fighting for nothing.


Snowfall. Again.

You dream one day you will sleep late into the afternoon,

recovering all those lost hours.

You imagine you will remember your dreams

without them being sterilized by vodka.

Inside you’d be saying “I’m still here.”

And maybe your life wouldn’t be half bad.


One day you would decipher the hieroglyphics of love.

It might fall into place if the symbols didn’t change too quickly.

It is a thing that moves in and out, like a salamander beneath the rocks.

The season must be just right for it to emerge.

It would rather starve than come out in a less than perfect circumstance.

Here is the bell you do not answer.

Here is the language you cannot understand.

Here is the light moving through the room, away from you.

2013-12-10T22:27:03+00:00 Poetry, Uncategorized|

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