I couldn’t tell you
About success
Because its highs
Are insincere
As they manage
To belittle
What gifts failure
Really brings

In the agony
Of my phrase
When each word
Is often fatal
To what life
Still had potential
Before earning
This disease –

Simply wishing
There was choice
Over feelings
Inconvenienced
By what dayjob
Hardly matters
Or an insult
Often said

From the mouths
Of those who love
Via hate
They claim assistance
To produce
Some other meaning
Where their money
Offers peace,

Knowing art
Just isn’t right
As this sickness
Meant for speaking
With expressions
Through surrender
While the gun
Comes out my throat

Shooting blanks
At empty space
Thinking pages
Hide some answers
Always missing
If I seek them
Aiming closely
Though inept

When attempting
Worthy dreams
Chasing fate
God calls disaster
Going crazy
On this mission
Dropping verses
Slipping hard

Losing minds
And last respects
No one has
For stubborn writers
I assure you
Aren’t changing
To accomplish
Normal feats.

– J. Pigno