Bottom Line

Will your bottom line one day 
become a stanza for you to pen poems on? 
Or a tightrope draped slacked between 
two mountains with no safety harness 
to keep you from meeting your death – 
I guess even suicide can be hospitable 
sometimes you know. 
I seen some bottom lines drawn on arms. 
Carved in flesh; they looked like bad memories, 
but who am I to judge. 
Who am I to judge those that snort 
their bottom lines away. 
Honestly, who ever stares a disaster 
in the eyes and doesn’t blink at least once?