The Never Man: Recovery / by The Black Lex Luthor

Recovery is slow, and I burn through the days, so my eyes glisten bloodshot red

when I swallow the morning; I almost choke on the sun, needing to eat light

cause this darkness is keeping my arteries tight.

I took out a loan on time cause I never have enough left over
As it slips through my hands. I’m the Never Man, never could-never can.
I never juked right; I barely ran. I’m in recovery and it’s slow processing and second guessing, terminal outpatient raving and foolish, puerile cravings of a young man, aging. The years grant gifts of periodic joy, I wander and wonder why I play life so coy, why I’m shuffling my packaged feelings like an errand boy.

Recover. Repair. Under duress, my blessings are a semblance of sleepy-eyed gestures within spiritual haze. A hollow wish pulls an empty gaze, a blind rodent scurrying through a tattered maze. The abandoned home. The missing page. I’m the actor performing his show off-stage, the unheard soliloquy fueled with rage.

I wake up and grab my cup and choke down the sun. I want to feel it going down but my body’s too numb. The Never Man: never free, never done, never defeated but always unsung. Recovery is slow, but the madness is fun, and I burn through the nights just to choke down the sun. I learn through the days and the battles I have won. I burned through the age to the man I've become.