Found God in her room,
Mama said, “not ready.”
Looked up to the moon,
Moon Man said, “you not ready.”
Dipped down through the flume,
water felt so heavy.
Dropped change on some tunes,
jukebox said, “you’re too heady.”
I wanted a flock my feathers fit.
I needed to straighten out my shit.
I’m gon’ get down in the water.
I need to wash and get myself clean.
Suit coat, I couldn’t breathe.
So my lungs, I spit ’em out.
Pant hem, to the knees.
My legs, I cut ’em down.
It’s true I know I shoulda found myself a better tailor.
But I spent all my money on a suit that looked the shit.
Now that I’ve bled out you can bury me early – but dapper.
Instead of fitting it I shoulda found a suit that fit.
I’m shedding confidence like oaks unders November frost,
embarassed by my fleeting leaves and my rooted thoughts.
The concept lingers like Fall cumulus – fat and low.
I pray for rain just to get wet with what I need to know.