Killers don't cry

Our demons would think us to be heroes,
but we're just disillusioned drug dealers
with bruised egos.

Some of us sold our allegiances to strangers
for paisley patterned belongings.
We all wore black to confront the beyond-
sheltering ourselves from the scrutiny
of whoever was watching with a cloak of darkness.

Tears are death warrants.

Only the heartless survive,
in spite of their physiological flaws.
As I stood in front of the congregation,
trying to make sense of our losses,
I lost it.

The bouquet-covered altar blurred
like the subdued sentiments of despondence.
I looked out into the crowd.
And the tears started falling.

"We are all dead men walking.
This life only lasts so long,
especially when you keep swallowing
the salt on your wounds."

Dogs

There are innumerable bodies lining the sidewalks;
and we still talk about sitcoms, sports, and dramas.

Some people will never learn to think
outside of the box.

How long will the forgotten die as our memories go on?
Will we remember them at all?
The prospect is somber,
regardless.

Under the rubble,
buried too deep
to be met by our dishonest sympathies,
lies a truth
too dark to uncover,
too poverty-stricken.

A tricycle sits on it's side in a deserted street
waiting for a sweetheart that lost her life before her innocence.

This isn't how life is supposed to be;
is it?

We've become too blinded by our greenbacks
to see that they've sewn seeds in killing fields,
and compounded the causes of relief efforts.

A chorus of crushed voices resonates from the ruins,
Crying out.

Sometimes I think I feel the pursed lips of my wallet
bleeding down my hamstring,
beaten centsless by a constant diet of tender dollars
as others starve.

Then there were the dogs,
pancaked under the concrete stories.
At least grieve for the dogs.

Kote Ii ou fe mal?

Disillusioned is my favorite word.

Mask

I don't remember any of my babysitters, just the fog on the window by the front door spreading from my breath as I watched my mother leave with some other vagabond. The blur of the school parking lot as I watched my father drive off into another month of absentia from behind solemn eyes. My brother was hardly ever home, and when he was he chased me around wearing a Halloween mask.

Family ties hanged on broken bonds. The noose is too loose to stop our fall. But we've learned how to love each other. We've uncovered each other's scars; well, at least I have, but sometimes I doubt they really know me at all.

I threw that Halloween mask in the trash, and forced my brother to wear his true colors when he wanted to kick my ass. I just wanted to be close, but he enjoyed knocking me over a little too much to notice. We aren't even really brothers. We only talk over intoxication.

My dad was my hero, before the fall: before I saw how pitiful of a man he was when I was gone. I still think he was a coward for hiding behind those bars.

And my mom was the only one that stood by me. Though her hand oftentimes only sought mine when she lost hold of her wandering affections, I never stopped her. I just wanted her to be happy.

My criticism is no malicious vengeance. I've been trying to digest all the frogs I swallowed throughout my youth. They croaked in my throat until my voice box grew sore from their sallow songs. It feels good to vomit their truth.

5 minute ultimatum

Perhaps one day I will write something substantial. Maybe some people(hopefully institutionally recognized ones) will praise me. Then I will sit back, and realize I have accomplished nothing. My legacy will only be blotters on a page, of a language that will most likely be widely unrecognizable in the distant future that they seek to penetrate.

How vain is this cathartic act?
Why do I pose questions of my own contemplation,
if not to only further confound those kind enough to take time out of their day to read them?

Who the fuck reads anymore anyway?
Poetry has become a marginalized section of bookstores and libraries
where introverts hide away, where a canonical selection of literature remains,

forever.

Kiss my ass if you don't think I'm clever.