the special feeling way down where it hurts

the luck is
the luck,
a turning,
tumbling
escape from
what the rest
of us endure
daily.

the luck comes
and forms in its
own way,
under its
own set
of principles.
it can neither
be contained
nor extracted.
like a teenager,
it does what
the fuck it wants
when the fuck it
wants to do it.

it goes without saying
that
the luck
is an asshole too.

beating the hope
from charred souls
like drill sergeants
with a taste for blood,
the luck is abusive.

but above all,
the luck is a farce
we conduct
upon
ourselves,
taping together old
wounds
in the hope
to make the
bleeding
subside.

the luck is
a pig
covered in the shit
of other pigs,
hoping to stay dirty enough
to not be eaten.

the luck is
an incapable lover,
grinding their
crotch into an
already
worn out
groin.

the luck is
an abusive father,
slapping
away the dreams,
one hit at a time.

the luck is
a drunk in the
street
stumbling and
never getting hit.

the luck,
the fucking
luck
is a battered
girl
just doing
what her pimp
told her.

the goddamn luck
is waking up
in a bathtub
filled with ice
and noticing
a scar where
one of you organs
used to be.

the luck is
a stain on the new
tie you bought
for an interview
you'll never have.

and with
everything the
way
it is,
who needs luck
at all
?