Streets

Anxiety starts to build into a roar.
Sweat glistens restless palms.
“What the hell am I doing?”
Escapes from the lips of a reserved man.
Delusions cease to confound confusions,
As passerbys are glued to screens with high resolutions,
And is it clear,
That I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Rising frost from my breath,
Jumps from a rising chest,
And frigid sleeping fingers,
Awakens like a discovered crest,
I fumble between heighten senses of elevations,
When spasmodic noises amplifies my frustrations,
And is it clear,
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Congested roads slick with reflections,
Paints a man wandering and broken,
Grappling a pleading proclamation,
Besieging patrons for oil rubbed tokens,
His pleading eyes go unspoken,
And still,
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Lost in a warm armor of drunken rage,
Shifting through bouts of confession and railing subterfuge,
I light a match and burn off these days,
Between splendor and despair,
Between darkness and light,
Between fury and flight,
I stumble along the path of fate:
Belligerent and sputtering.