Shadows have faces• Show poetry

My personal history is like a shotgun in an uncle’s mouth:
Loaded with shrapnel ready to shred any scrap of sanity.
And it tears through my existence like that bullet.

My chances of coming clean are a beggars boxing shorts:
Loaded from years of dirty living and lack of hygienic vanity;
Slim to none. Best to just burn ‘em.

The obvious tragedy is that by chance;
I was afforded more opportunity than many
And squandered it.

Born in a land of freedoms and dreams
Or at least in it’s present tense so it seems.
I have wasted time and plenty of drug money, but I am a human being.

The scars of my humility are track marks on the sun:
Burning with fierce fragility for such force.
And I’m on fire inside with the knowledge.

My ability to care is an absorbent spongy seabed:
Spanning oceans so deeply soaked around the world it misses the little things.
And it renders me oblivious to life on the surface.

The crucial reality is that I am responsible for who I am
Because I claim ownership,
But with caution and a catch:
I need god in my heart, love in my soul
And there’s a balance I have to match,
To even hope to redeem my past.

If I were to meet a woman and tell her I have no baggage:
I’d be lying,
Like a bearskin rug,
Through my teeth
And way beyond my gums;

I’ve got lots of baggage.
Tonnes;
But I’ve gotten stronger carrying it

Learned how to lighten the load
By getting it off my chest, out of my heart
And pinning what I need to my sleeves
Like armbands
To symbolize the many deaths my soul has faced and been reincarnated from.

I harbour only tiny secrets,
Putting the rest in a diary that I open daily to read aloud and be proud of.
I was created from the same energy as you
We all have our weight to carry and stardust to brush off our shoulders
But if we see through this filth and earthen dirt,
We may still find our perfect worth,

Beyond the coatings of rust and hurt.

We can finally come clean.