Through My Wire

I’d like to take a new direction, thinking about West. Come take a walk in my shoes, or in this case take a bite out of my blues. Full bars of service and still never got the text, at seventeen a heaven sent message to be tested. Actually a tumor they called it, I just renamed it an issue. One hand cursing God, the other passing my mom the tissues. I tried being charged up staying positive, but people kept counting me out like “we’ll miss you”. I've been praying for better days or news, but all I get is a minimum of six weeks eating blended juice. This nuisance was excuseless, had me plotting to raise a noose. My function is vegetation glued to the TV in endless frustration and still can't believe the news. Refuse to believe the news, much too difficult to believe. My mentality was Superman, but reality held down by alloys like the late Christopher Reeves. Now scars decorate my carotid like I should be deceased. No pain I slide through with ease courtesy of the prescribed morphine; I'm tripping out but still taking care of business by any means. Still hitting the high notes of my scripts with texts and other lettered keys. Though I can't verbally express it, I'll swallow this experiential kryptonite and still stay calm and focused as the summer's breeze.