We are all looting the stores of our damaged confidence 

like they’re in a strip mall during a riot. We’re partway  

between calling for a sober cab and cracking open another can,  

while our split-tongued society sings hymns of feigned hallelujahs  

and scams us with its newest crackpot theories of happiness.  

The perimeters of our hearts are delineated with caution tape,  

our prejudices passing judgment in the darkness like a joint  

at a house party. This is why we dance while the roof is on fire,  

letting that motherfucker burn for a chance at insurance money.  

All our past due bills and/or insatiable cravings for shiny things  

(see also: bling) prod us to cope with the modern man’s hustle  

long after we’ve recognized that it’s fully rooted in madness.  

We’ve already memorized the abridged definition of insanity,  

doing the same thing over again, expecting different results,  

etcetera. But the real definition is the itch of a jagged question  

caught in our throats, while the answer smolders like a Newport  

in our hands only three weeks after going cold turkey, again.  

Half-truths are just half-lies putting their best foot forward.  

Nothing prepares us for the potholes along the rutted road  

to redemption. Indeed, the struggle is real. It’s like a jungle,  

sometimes, but such old-school sentiments are omitted  

from the lyrics of the latest song telling us to keep it real  

when it sounds fake as a street vendor’s ticking Rolex.  

Yes, yes ya’ll, we won’t stop. Because if we ever did,  

we’d cease believing in salvation as it comes unspooled  

like a mixtape containing the soundtrack to our survival.