To Be Legit.

Is it easy?
No one here remembers really,
call me silly
but I wait for your knock at the door.
But I’m never sure
if it’s a ghost that I fear
or just my own imagination?
Shifted and lifted,
I fight off the agitation.
Say I’m fine,
but exploding really.
my friends and foes could try to feel me
but they could never sneak a touch.
I do too much
to stay out of reach and out of touch.
My disconnect
is where I am most connected,
of all the memories I’ve recollected,
I’ve never been so disconnected.
A static cling
straps me to everything
so hot
my blood starts to boil.
I wonder if hurts to shuck off this mortal coil.
I strip off my skin,
the one better of all the lepers,
but you can’t take spots from leopards.
I’m a sheep without his shepherd,
someone is bringing out the shears.
Will I shed tears
when they showcase all my fears?
That I am nothing in this race?
my face displaced
so that outer space gleams
and I couldn’t even glimpse the stars
without them devising
and revising.
Watching them synchronizing
like dancers to recreate your face.
I see you everywhere.
Your eyes blink at me from my sushi,
they glare at me through water,
and if I had the courage to ever look straight at your daughter,
it’d be like watching a dead man move in a woman’s body.
I hesitate to jump the gun,
I am no man’s son,
so what gives me the right?
Do I think I think I cry the most?
I feel so close
but we don’t share blood
instead, mud
flows within my veins.
Who should I blame
that I carry this name
green eyed and wrought with jealousy?
Forever daunted and haunted by your legacy.
What’s wrong with me?
I cry tears for a father that don’t even belong to me.
How sad
to tell my friends I was conceived in a lab,
sadder I dreamed
to believe it,
of all the truths I needed,
I have never been so defeated.
Never could I be defeatist,
nor could I ever be an elitist,
but being eighteen and life is measured in milimeters
I must admit,
I think I deserve to quit.
This life is a piece of shit,
I look at the moon from alleys lowly lit,
just this wish to be legit.
I open my arms to feel the bliss,
heart resting on the cross I kissed
only to open my eyes,
to find out that it missed.
Victim of some lesser trick,
stomach hurts, I’m getting sick.
None of the lessons stick,
stuck in a pit,
a bottomless bottom of sorts.
Sorted through the coors
and breezed through all the whores,
but every flavor in life,
to me,
still tastes like shit.
I’m still not your son,
when my only wish
was to be legit.

To Be Legit.

Shaquille Stewart

Montgomery Village, United States

  • Artist

Artist's Description

I am not my father’s true son. His death only makes that harder for me to swallow it.

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