Who are you to judge that which doesn't concern you?
Are you trying trying to plant your pedicured feet in tattered sneakers
or is it a twisted satisfaction your mind eagerly propels through?
A desire so sickening of emotional magnitude, you might as well
use your dainty fingers to reopen a freshly sewed knife wound.
Oh, that's not what you "meant" to do? It's not I you have to tell.

Continue to play the innocent card, it's what you do best;
An Ace you can't seem to stress, giving protection like a bullet-proof vest,
whereas the downtrodden can't fathom to use their resources
to unleash a slugfest you oh so request.
Ultimately, it's an oppression of border-line obsession
that conveys a weakness infesting your malignant mind.

What audacity must you have to belittle those who are persecuted;
mistreated by society and suppressed by privileged voices.
You must truly be afraid of Outcasts if you require silence
for their songs and melodies seek inner harmony and bliss.
It is these traits that are a forgotten treasure in the eyes of the entitled,
for they'll dismiss and deny its existence since it actually requires hard work

We've been beaten and bruised, disappointed and disheartened,
but we as outcasts will continue to remain defiant to your sinister pestilence.
We have a fire in our hearts that burns the brightest amongst the darkest of skies,
and that is something your fragile heart will never be blessed with.

Those entryways, the abrupt angled hallways, the familiar loose doorknob,
no longer feels like a home, but a hulking shell of empty memories.
The once shiny portraits of smiling kin are now caked with grime
while the coffee table is layered with dust denoting the time.
Cracks litter the kitchen countertop as if in reference to European trade routes.
The walk-in closet is still busted, just how Father intended.
In a past life time, the blood stains were thought to be wine,
but you can’t expect someone to consider that the house is covered with spills.

Eventually, they came..
Standardized outfits. Golden stars. Ranged enforcement. Stone cold faces.
They abducted the younglings, on the premise of humanly love,
fully expecting the backlash of threats, screams, and tears.
That was when the memories began to fade; the ties to bloodlines had all, but evaporate. A new last name and a new house,
but nothing could resemble the home that was lost: the various “wine” stains..

They were the closest thing I could remember of my Mother.

Conversing through a brew, amongst neon lights
one would say shooting the **** about past fights.
There were cries of laughter and of sorrow.
All the while the night becomes darker
and yet, there wasn't a sense of tomorrow.

We decided to drive to the beach to unwind.
The stars were bright and endless; a way to unbind
our tangible selves from the frivolities of life.
It didn't matter how insignificant we really are;
we'll heal, we'll grow, we'll walk the north star.

Separate, but equal beds, we laid.
Asking the most random of questions,
a fetal vulnerability began to be displayed.
Ultimately, we solidified the charade that
in the next life, I'm a dolphin and she, a mermaid.

The following day, I was awoken by a pillow hitting my face.
I didn't want her to leave so I suggested lunch, she agreed.
Lesson learned: it's easy to pick a place when you erase your birthplace.
Initially, I thought our little muse would then diffuse,
but as fate would have it, we oozed blood from fresh tattoos.

I could divulge more details about our adventures,
but I'd have to ask how much time do you have
because condensing the stories won't do you any justice.
Instead, I'd rather discuss my emotions I didn't think were possible
for I have sailed motions of uncharted oceans.

There was once a time where my heart turned icy.
Even though life experiences shot me the **** up,
the "beating" trophy only seemed to thaw.
I picked at straws to apply a healing salve
to revitalize the tender, raw tragic flaws.

I've done plenty wrong in what I consider another lifetime.
I try to make amends for what I've done or what I might do.
Perhaps it's the guilt that's deeply rooted
or maybe it's the love I have for humanity to be saved.
Some would say idealistic, others call it being depraved.

Despite it all, she saw right through my thorns
and thus her walls soon became worn and torn.
My heart wasn't mourned, she held it close to hers,
to be forever adorn. That's when I knew I was home;
for she is my Unicorn.

I should've seen this coming; I guess it was an inevitable moment.
The time has come where my most trusted friend,
my pen, refuses to listen. It's booming, vibrant voice soon turned
to fearful whispers and from there, only a solemn silence.
I stare at my Pilot G-2, longing for extravagant inspiration,
but the sudden rush of ideas only completes a stanza.
It's desperation at its most figurative finest; a hand reaching
out into the void, fully knowing that nothing can clasp your
callous laden palm. This is when the blank sheets sing victory
for they no longer have to feel my ritualistic, linguistic carvings
upon their soft skin. It's a bittersweet feeling to desire defilement
on a clean page, all on the premise of conveying my *******, since
it's the only "person" who can listen. I'm sorry, Paper. It's not your fault that I dump my problems on you.

I'm just a sick ****.

Questions were inquired as answers were sought
for you thought what you may have caught,
was a pseudo opportunity; a fraudulent jackpot.
With each of the prospect's responses, you formed
your own interpretations, determining which fits the slots.
You were relentless with curiosity; a mental onslaught.
You wanted to make sure you weren't caught in a blind spot.

Board games fill the mind to decipher if it's all a ruse.
Is this Monopoly or Risk? Checkers or maybe Chess?
Issue "Stop and Frisk" for the detainment is familiar
and it allows you to access and address the fears you have.
Profess your worry, express your stress, all in the name of progress.
All the while the prospect shall not digress.
Let the questions and answers compress and coalesce
so the faithfulness may fluoresce.

Cracks of past signs shall now align,
as if nature intended this design all along.
A straight line through the benign land mines,
a possibility you couldn't seem to define.
This juncture doesn't have to be on a fault line.
Dispel the notions of fear and embrace uncertainty.
The night is dark and full of the unknown, but it shall decline,
for your fires burn bright, little sunshine.

I’m the *******; the malevolent ****.
That which knew trust equates terrible tricks.
A sinful smile, a damning demeanor,
I am the vines that voraciously bind,
while my thorns poke and ****, like perversive ******.
cancerous clarity, a malignant mind,
tell me, which thoughts you wish to rewind,
for I remember a time when lies were dry
and the only crime I committed was to satisfy
an inherent inner desire to change my pre-determined life.
it is only when I tried to apply my methods that suddenly,
your preconceived notion of I was held in strife.
Fear not, this isn’t the first time my shoulders held such weight.
Your assumptive comments that I inadvertently helped to generate,
is nothing more than child’s play I don’t hesitate to tolerate.
Give me your anger, let loose your pain.
it’ll sustain that evidential feeling of empowerment,
proof that your wounds wouldn’t bleed in vain.
Tell me, could you deem my actions as far as inhumane,
or was it merely that I, wanted to work on my personal campaign.

The summer heat seems to persist, despite
the allegations of a calendar portraying Fall.
I sit upon a balcony, amongst groups
chattering about their life experiences.
Each individual wearing loose clothing
with neutral colors to avoid perspiration.
I wish I had gotten the memo.

It seems only fitting that I wear
a maroon button-up flannel.
“You’re torturing yourself in this weather!”
Perhaps I just fancy masochism;
my penance for a divine absolution.
Its constraints prove difficulty
as I try to catch a breath of life.

There’s a certain wistfulness to being
an outcast-of-all-trades.
I do desire some sort of social interaction,
but the lack of small talk is definitely freeing.
Who would require this form of communication?
A complete lack of substance of individuality
whereas I’m waiting patiently and hungrily.

They say a healthy temperature is 98.6,
but if I’m constantly a degree or two less,
am I less inclined to be living?
Perhaps it’s the lack of compassion
that causes my blood to turn thicker.
If I may inquire a further inspection,
I’d say I’m in a dire need of a hug.

Meaningless words drown out the silence
as if we should listen to respond.
We form a sentence before the rant is done
and with utilization of reactionary banter,
our hurt emotions are forever lost.
Deep down, we just want a listener to understand.
Please, talk some sense to me.

A couple across from me is sharing
what looks like a strawberry wave smoothie.
The simplicity and beauty tugs
the strings of an aching, irregular heart.
They’re laughing. They’re smiling. They left.
I could sense love in the air,
all the while I sit here, telling myself

“Maybe one day.”