Sandpit Politics

I bruised my funny bone
on the raw edges of another clique
that exposed itself like a senile streaker
at my bedroom window just after dawn
and just like the streaker, the naked truth
is ugly, and has me barring the windows
and bleaching my eyeballs
though not the inside of my mind
which holds the image long after it’s gone

I lost my friends with the war on crime
smoked up, shot up, snorted with wasabi
and swallowed with a happy high
like waking up from a hallucination
only to realise you’ve fallen into a dream
and have the scars to prove it

She said, “we’re only as sick as our secrets
and we’re all running from something”

And if I’m honest, I’ve been running from life
from happiness, from love
all because I got bruised  
on the way down into reality
from my purple hazed and vodka bottled high
if you discount the broken promises
black eyes and death threats

And here I am again
standing on the edge of another clique
that speak of streakers and the secrets
we not-so-secretly keep from anyone
with their eyes open

But I’m not so willing to step up to that auric fence
of people surrounded by well know acquaintances
and slip through the cracks and into the conversations
that make us or break us
despite knowing that eventually the people I try on
just might fit my own brand of strange
enough to call me family

I bruised my funny bone
on the raw edges of another clique
and now I don’t want to play with the other kids
when I’m sure there’s still needles in the sandpit

© Indie Adams 2013