A Joker, Or A Two-Face, Or Even A Penguin.

Sounds like it.
A broken spindle, a broken needle.
Sounds like it.
The words fall like hourglass sand, on a singular wavelength.
This isn't vinyl,
this isn't a rave scene.
I am confused, just like you.
Yes you are, I'm telling you.
Just remember this:
You make your family, your family doesn't make you.
What am I trying to say?
Why won't you allow this man his platform?
This keyboard is too easy.
I miss that hard touch of my trusty old Underwood.
Yeah, I need to get back to what drew me to you in the first place.
Those late nights, those long lost testimonies.
All the empty wine bottles lining the wall.
Red stained fingerprints on pages torn from history.
A friend, a porch, a guitar and ink.
Singing to the Oakland skyline,
we were drunk on our own design.
Our own flawed notions of Notoriety and Neanderthal Nothingness.
You were my ghost, my guiding spirit.
To learn the rhythm, the iambic pentameter, we had to live like our heroes had abandoned us.
Have they abandoned you?
I will never abandon you?
Please, I am begging you, DO NOT abandon me.