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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
unified
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.
