An Apogeic Infliction.

A Poem by Lee W. Deason

Cut scene to a dark doorway in the bedroom.
Where I stand with my hands on my head.
Cause I'm fine and I don't need this s**t, this tick.
In my neck, a crick in my step, an' I utter a sound of regret.
(I'm thinking) I can't even fall down to die for the night, in suicide.

This shouldn't be so hard.
To take it easy....

My life rolled out of my head and across the floor.
An' I said, "Damn, that's not right. Right?"
I plug my ears and begin to sink through the crack.
Now I swear I feel arrested even though I was attacked.

How wrong? On the scales of madness.
How wrong? Do you feel after the appeal.
When you figure out you've got a problem.
And you where the one who didn't notice.

This shouldn't be so hard.
To take it easy....
Falling, hands on my head.
Tryin' to sleep....
But won't come, won't come.

Where it belongs, in the middle of the room.
Keeping all things centered. Like pinnacle.
The sun dial that's never wrong, or gone.
Because the red horizon keeps turning black.
Since then it's been days and I'm still amazed.
How s**t spins and plays out in the end.
Like the plot killed the writer, who shot the director.

So we cut scene to the bathroom.
He's spilling his guts through the phone.
While the lights sparkle and shake.
And she tells em' to take it easy.

It's so damn hard.
To take it easy....
Cause the fall will kill you when you're this high...
All the time...