How to Walk From New York to Andalusia

I'm standing, anxious, breathing fast.
I'm more than a little nervous.
A quick jab would have me dead
on a morgue slab, if you're pondering
quick service.

I'm asking myself questions
that I can't answer.
The longing for knowledge
seeps like a cancer,
moving through metastasis
from my heart to my soul.

I'm investing life savings
in a shaky market,
don't crash for me, baby,
don't come down from your
heroin high,
keep strong on the mainline
with a direct injection.

I need you to stay steady,
or else I'm gonna fall and
shatter, glass with a face.
Look at me, smile at me,
sweep me into the dustpan
with those unblinking eyes.

You might say I make no sense.
I would call you quite the liar.
I make all the sense in the world
and moreso, if you look with a
tilted head and an open heart.

Can you see it now, the twitch
on my nerves more palpable than
a broken rib? Push into the tender
areas and detect the problem.
Then, pull the pistol and pull the trigger.

Best friends and black nights are
distant memories. If I can't have
them again, then I don't want
your generic substitutes.
Don't lie, please don't.
Your eyes will give it away,
scream it like an anthem,
blare it like the patriots they are.

Tell the story, my griot,
before I squeeze it from you.
Tell the story you told before,
the one of my soul, warring
like a proud Sikh with blades clanging
and heart pounding.
Sing me to sleep with it,
make me a child again.
Please.