Excess

Excess

Older in person

then the photographs

I am portrayed in,

a bit of silver

in my hair,

not unlike

Superman’s mother.

 

My rubbing of skin, raw

has its consequences,

as does burning holes

in the bed sheets.

 

But I’ve pressed

into molds before,

with varying degrees

of success,

or rather excess.

 

And it’s depressing

when I can see

the dryness of my skin,

even where the tears

often fall.

 

Yet the handful

of blood,

is still warm

and wet.

 

And the taste of iron lingers

on the butt

of my last cigarette.

 

Being I,

an absurd representation

of life.

 

Expedited by death.