I need somebody to right my wrongs.

Because I can only write my wrongs.

I do not know what poetry means.
But when I look hard enough, I see it everywhere.

Sitting on the rocking chair
in the dark corner
of his dimly lit study
with gaze transfixed
on the steam rising
from the coffee mug
he rolled cigarette
between his fingers
caressing his forehead
with other hand
he put the cigarette
between his lips
and
inhaled the bitter smoke
with a hope that
it will be the antidote
to her memories
poisoning his soul
cigarette after cigarette
pack after pack
inhaling, exhaling...
Drowning himself
in the greyness of smoke
to the world outside,
he was nothing
but an addict
but little did they knew
that it was his only way
to save himself
to build the thick wall
of acrid smoke
between him and her ...

Donald Trump
will never make America great again.
The American dream is dead.
You are the one who killed it.
Dead with Lennie and the rabbits.
George is probably gone now too.
Depression. Couldn't live with himself.
Curley's wife never made it to Hollywood.
Still stuck in the bedroom,
with red ostrich feathers and ***** husband's
vaseline-filled glove.
His breath still reeks of rotten eggs;
only a matter of time before he gets sick - affluenza. Incurable.
Crooks isn't a man. Been diminished to nothing
but a shell. Hollow, and he believes it.
Candy and Slim, worked to death for minimum wage.
The American dream is dead.
******* by deluded denial.
Time to wake up and smell the rotting corpse of reality.