The heat : ON
So hot
beading bullets of stress bleed.
Old habits rot from their negative consequence.
Responding reflexes in me, tell to move!
Or move on.
‘86 and on…
Numb, after slick bodies merge.
Hate, be GONE.
Numb from such Love
new to the plain of thought.
Mind killing bad habits before they ROT.
STILL stuck…
Gone but not forgot…
Screwed for so long;
Eyes so shot.
Tripped before running begins
foot caught in the gap.
Falling in head… But physically, sitting…
Something fresh and new… On my lap.
I told you I’d become the first to adapt.
“He’s cute and relaxed… With words to keep reflection,
Time ticks on
Summer Blonde and back & forth again.
Stewing in my verbal artillery,
with a lot of blame, but less shame or self-pity.
Fearing, this may actually be some sick trend!
Lucky, at Level Eighteen, to have these friends
and brothers until the enigmatic end, and heaven
all the way thru the hell here.
Trading blows with “M.C.” and my life’s “Switching Gears.”
Just won’t give in!
Critics shovel on dirt
…And it’s enough!
Body’s not dead until the soul is pulled & snuffed from
bodily restriction.
A man’s not a popper until there’s a pop addiction!
And so addicted to pop
that the buzz won’t be eased and can’t be securely stopped
in the path of security.
Raising hell with the Crew,
to slow the bell from triggering shocked response.
Let us do it again
a year goes around.
In it’s ranks, attempting to contend.
The fight is finally illustrating the bite in it’s bark.
Now strung sentences are no longer just talk.
Holding respect, but I’d rather stay, and stand at firing- lines
then go your way and take the Walk of Shame out of the gate
wether on the dot, or late.
‘Rather light a cigarette and do shots then
twist personal fate & coil up a dying, unraveling depressed state
almost roped ‘n tied, hanging there until all the tears have drip-dried, and every last Demon has died.
Publication of words, leaves them to be eyed by all able souls
leaving (my) insides empty, yet subtly whole.
Putting them out, leaves some of the warm fire cold and dim.
Writing what is in the mind
reclining; trying to unwind.
Youth flipping in midair
surly bold, in the layout of thought on scratch paper.
Hating the stressful tension of The Loop’s blur!
Back 2 School, and back again, even when it’s long gone.
Keep spinning till dead! Harnessing the momentum, to the end!

Mike O’Toole