Weak-End

Art by Laurie Homan

Thank goodness it’s Friday.

Excuse my health while I fry my brain off natural herbs, and insides off salt and grease. I’ll soon be at peace, laying or sitting. In or on a throne where death is released from the living.

My weekend—ahh, the long struggle, gets to choke me silly. Lay me out, now I don’t have to avoid help, eye contact or panic attacks.

If you pretend enough, you can bluff your way to recovery.

See me! Thats how I make it too!

Sad-er-day, when I sat-all-day—gone. Cause— I ain’t have the strength to live it— kept my woes shut in, so everyone felt me.

Let me not talk that way.

I’ll make it through…

Sunday, great name.

If you got one, protect him. teach what real and fake is, Not toy tits or butt lifts. The women who handle men better and more often than their own business and feelings.

If you have a daughter, educate and battle her and her mother— train them for the war they will see, and the ones men use for cover— Jealousy. It intensifies love but leaves no survivors.

I was never able to fully enjoy Sundays. I always felt the sun made the world stand still— a good thing, but I felt it was the last day to hold onto myself. When it’s fall and rainy season, I brace, cause smiles stop shining bright. Too many minds used to being used, slipping and pulling bodies down, happily confused.

But at the end, I get it together. I can’t be the man with a family and be weak. Aint no escape. Only helping myself and creating a better way.