Sleep-drugged and dull, I watch the ceiling fan,
The slow propellers of a nowhere man
Forever grinding as I stir and wake
Beneath the feather-breeze — a ghostly chill.
I rise, accustomed to the daily ache
(Reminder of a road-rashed Harley spill).
 
The bathroom mirror waits, a friend of youth.
Its light emits a harsh, fluorescent truth
Without the shade that dims the jagged course
Of blemishes obtained in foolish years.
I press the tats and scars, recall each source, 
And trace the trophies earned (as souvenirs)                     
 
For such activities as honor fights,
The basal cell incisions, razor blights,
And various and sundry scrapes or cuts
Collected by a boy who challenged fate.
However, wisdom clutched a share of guts,
And as I aged I cauterized the trait
 
Of sprinting recklessly with blow-torch eyes,
Exhaling hell-for-leather battle cries
Which, voiced with wild abandon, lacked technique,
But when impinged with cause, became a roar.
I rub each scar, remember, smile, and speak
Of perfect imperfections — give me more.