Escape, Goat!

I've got a problem

with being chastised

for sin

by sinners.

I've got a pension

for cracking a toothless grin

in the son of a bitch

who fires guns every which way

but his own.

Because in his world

he's clearly the winner.

Wiped clean

of whatever he didn't mean

to do.

You see, he's got the luxury

of pouring grains of exception

into his fault lines.

He's got a way to fuck up,

but compromise

that he's not all that bad

in the end.

That we all take a slip

here and there,

now and then.

But he's gathered a group

of people


by a personal bias so obtuse,

it's created a scapegoat

in me.

Hence I've been tagged

with a scarlet letter.

A marked man,

made up of their selective perception

of who I am;

a soul, no better

than its worst crime.

Turn a blind eye to the good,

they say.

And embrace his wicked acts.

For though they are merely

rocks in our roads,

they most certainly make up his entire act.

And like that,

my sins are multiplied across my own skin

like an encompassing cancer.

       I can no longer stub my toe

       without breaking my leg.

       And I'd be fool to catch a cold

       lest I end up dead.

I may ask myself sometimes

how to rid this symbol

like everyone else

and apply for cleansing.

But as long as I'm theirs

for the verdict,

I'm chasing a fantasy ending.

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