you're like
a shaman. a shepherd. a guru. a sage
a humanist, ancient in years, youthful in days
your shoes are always converse and your sweaters are fading
back in 1998 is when you got 'em, i wager
rolling stones and parliament in heavy rotation
writing songs in notebooks that you kept in the basement
you're my favorite. but it goes without. closing shutters open house
dusty carpet moldy grout, underpaid, overwhelmed
lonely often, stoned to the gills. 12-pack cold ginger ale
dreamt of homes on the range. felt more at home on the rail
coping mechanisms carried over. rebellion. i would
sneak into your room for roaches, bogus as hell
we talked through tears at length about whatever we felt
deconstructing patterns we created ourselves
tracing back abandonment and trauma and fear
all these years, never told you what you wanted to hear
we're different in so many ways, its painfully clear. but
i still see you every single time i look in a mirror
sorry papa
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Zack Wicks for president
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