The sly child works life over….

On the wrong day, you don’t wanna be in the ring.

The blows are at you, and about him.

The perspiration is evidence of an overheated mind.

He is perceived to be taking deliberate jabs

But he is paradoxically foolish,

two faced and fools even himself.

Left hook,

Upper cut, uppercut, jab….  prancing like an athlete

he is bogged down with un-harvested tears;

a levy waiting to break

a need as basic as his tears

and as acidic as his loathsome thoughts,

as commonplace as his morning eggs and toast.

Does the masochist avoid the mirror, toothbrush readied, 

while he scours the flesh

from his gums?

Like an addict and his pills

there was never time for pain

only time for a reprieve from life;

the threat of pain.

Like a suicide bomber he ascribes

to his false hope like the fighter and the addict

but never fully deactivates the roots

Deadly nightshade is, after-all, edible?