Monday, June 19, 2017

finding my temper (the prisoner of sausage)

I'm finding my temper
I wish it weren't so
I already lost it
a little while ago
but it's come back
holding me hostage
like a pizza possesses
its prisoner of sausage
in hot mozzarella
and marinara sauce
that's how my temper
lets me know who's boss
I may have a big temper
but it's plain to see
that my temper thinks
it's the owner of me

I'm finding my temper
it's starting to complain
that there's not enough space
left in my worn out brain
my temper thinks,
more often than not,
that my brain's the result
of whiskey and pot
but self-medication 
is more fun than pain
and it don't matter to me
if memories remain
I may have a mean temper
that must be numbed so
otherwise I'm the target
when it wants to explode

I'm finding my temper
I'm tired of this
remember when Christ
was betrayed by a kiss?
well, I ain't no Jesus
but I pray this will pass
and I think my temper 
can go and kiss it's own ass
I say
don't run away
don't you try to hide
'cause, boy, you see,
I need you on my side
maybe I have a temper
but I'm trying to believe
that my temper 
is the employee
and it works for me

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