My own Brand of Crazy

Never did get to play violin.  
No one gave me a string instrument,  
 ( but I did have a slingshot )  
made it myself, not store-bought.  
No, I never did play  
anything as a kid.  
 
We couldn't afford  
to buy things anyway.  
Wasn't allowed to join any sports.  
Dad said that was  
a luxury we couldn't afford.  
 
It sort of killed him  
to see his kids play.  
I don't mean "play sports"  
I mean "play as a kid."  
 
Whatever we did  
he would simply hate  
to see one of us  
just have a nice day.  
 
He'd never let me  
go hunting either,  
thought I'd be the one  
boy on the border  
of Canada who  
never owned a gun  
or could go on hunts.  
 
One night my step-dad  
actually said if  
I had guns  
he'd shoot me  
 
 one day.  
    - yep -  
blow off my head  
with my own gun.  
(never did ask him  
about hunting again)  
 
Okay, Mike...enough of  
that negative shit.  
What else can I say?  
well...  
I like writing poetry  
and being creative,  
it's appreciated  
when folks say I  
did something great.  
 
But I'm not all that good  
at taking compliments  
in fact, they make me feel so  
nervous and itch deep inside.  
I want to go hide  
and I lose all my confidence.  
 
I start telling myself  
all this negative shit,  
guess subliminally  
it can keep me in check.  
 
Maybe I'm really  
just fucked in the head,  
 
I don't want to get  
 negative again.  
Anyway, for me  
compliments wear-off  
I dismiss them  
in a second.  
 
Guess that's just  
my way to  
avoid validation.  
Freudian babble could  
probably explain it.  
 
 When young I was told  
how I was 'brilliant'.  
(No, I'm not kidding)  
 
    Yes, I know it sounds  
     stupid and cocky  
     but I have no  
     reason to lie.  
 (Even today some)  
 (say I'm a smart guy)  
 
 
I won lots of awards  
 by writing for contests  
and I couldn't ignore  
I  did have competence.  
 
   
 
Also got really good  
at swaying opinions.  
Creating visions of  
things within people's minds.  
 
Making them see what  
I want them to find.  
Was learning the tricks  
to fix how they thought.  
 
Got crafty and sly  
with great perception.  
 
Skilled at deception,  
I knew when to infuse  
myself, when to let up.  
 
 Picked up things really fast,  
got better with practice.  
 
When you grow up in  
a home of abuse  
you soon learn to use  
each skill that you've got.  
 
Still get afraid to see  
my reflection but not  
cause I'm ugly or seem  
like a troll, it's about  
looking inside  
 eyes of my soul.  
 
It's all in the eyes  
they never fooled mom.  
She always knew  
when something was up.  
 
After a while she  
got really good.  
She could tell exactly  
which drug I was on.  
(Hell, I never could)  
 
Maybe she went to school  
and learned about eyes,  
detecting which  
drug would match  
each pupil size.  
 
She figured out fast  
which drug the eye took.  
I got petrified to give  
her second looks.  
 
But those next few  
months were the worst.  
Cause I got hooked  
on smack and liked  
smoking crack  
for dessert.  
 
My greatest fear  
is for folks to find  
out I'm a fake.  
 
Maybe I wasn't  
the brightest kid,  
just cause I made  
some good grades.  
 
Creative for sure,  
but why?  
(maybe someday  
I'll realize I'm gay)  
 
Crazy musings,  
and stupid fixations  
seem to mix well  
with liquid libations.  
Think for right now though  
I'll just have me some tea.  
(trying to stick with my sobriety)  
 
Sipped long and hard  
on the necks of a bottle,  
boozing it up in  
those squandering years,  
felt quite entitled  
~ thanks very much ~  
Cause I grew up with drunks  
who would beat my ass up.  
 
My brain is filled  
with some crazy haze.  
Now what can I say  
that's cool-new-or strange?  
 
I'm just a guy like the rest  
sucking breath  
on this earth.  
Death is the only thing  
I know for sure....  
 
Not so well-versed  
that I can rap with the best,  
with those who suffuse  
"in the views of the moon"  
~ How lovely for them ~  
~ bet they're "too good" to be friends ~  
 
                  ~o~  
 
Head filled with static electricity  
I keep seeing shadows creep  
behind eyes in my back.  
(they probably have  
some good meds for that)  
 
Staring blindly at lights  
can fuel my disease,  
get fused inside screens  
of 3-D -TV's.  
 
My cranium's drained  
of dead Zombie brain,  
I can't explain why  
I'm feeling this way.  
 
A Poet's words flow  
and roll with the groove,  
and wield ways to sway  
people's views and moods.  
 
Hypnotizing one  
with tone of a voice,  
remove someone's choice  
to change their own mind.  
 
Tune in the radio  
but lose the CD's,  
can't figure out  
why I'm so ill at ease.  
Had doubts going in  
was a real skeptic kid.  
 
Dad said make money,  
no second to spare.  
Had to work young  
(I was still in daycare)  
 
Eat skin, shield your words  
keep wounds free of dirt  
and never reveal how much it hurts.  
 
Dad said take your blows  
and keep your head low.  
Just make sure you're back  
to work the next day!  
 
That man was insane.  
Unhinged and demented,  
"non-compos-mentis"  
psychotic - deranged!!!