I am a bug, I'm just an example
Of what the new millenium still cannot hold
My purpose is of no importance
As long as I can find a home

Nocturnal scenes have been reaching out to me
To stay and keep the day away
But I have trouble staying awake
It's a transition I don't want to see

I am a running wind on the side of the road
Where I have never run before
I cannot see much more from where I stand
Because I don't stand still anymore

By: Cedric McClester

A leopard doesn’t change his spots
Or so it would seem
Look at the people
That are choosing his team
They are all our of
A very bad dream
It’s enough to make
You want to scream

A scorpion bites you
Cuz that’s what he does
And few things are different
From the way that it was
Where are the jobs
He said were coming back
They’re nowhere to be found
And that is a fact

A tiger can **** you
Faster than a lion
And he told tall tales
That his people were buyiin’
Cuz he’s such a con man
There’s no point denyin’
He never said how
Now he’s not even tryin’

There are certain things
That are hard to see
Like a snake slithering down
From out of a tree
Without a doubt
He’ll bite you ya see
And his venom will spread
But don't blame that on me!





Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016.  All rights reservcd.

She has a shaved head
that reminds me of a
crooked-smile-ex;
that choked on cigarettes
and words too contrived,
painted in a negligence
for humanity and a
belief in uninformed
nothingness.

Her body curves like
backroads I've been lost in.
Skin as pale as an eggshell,
I'd imagine she'd shatter
under the olive robe
she calls a dress
and bounce under the
kickstep of organic flats.

Eventually she will become
too much of an idea, she will
evolve into a misogynistic
poem, and if I were
to imagine her naked,
guilt would flood our fleshly-
alcohol-stained-continents,
angry between every slur,
loving between the shadows
of phantoms I once knew.

Once when I was young,* I was told you could swing so high you'd be able to just *fly away.  

   I learned early on
               That not everything we're told is true
               The fantastical can sometimes amount to a pile of plastic bags scattered in the wind
                    The end isn't always happy and there's not always closure
      Punctuations are more often question marks than definitive periods
                And looking for a definite explanation took prevalence over allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks.
         Play time was replaced with study time,
             And before we knew it, it was time for work
                      We strayed from the playgrounds of our youth,
      Never returning to the top of the slide, we'd hit the ground a bit too hard to keep the enchantment of seemingly endless possibilities going
                                              Carriages became pumpkins long before midnight,
              And the school bell rang before we could finish our fun
                       But to tell the truth, sometimes,
     When everyone else has gone inside, back to the real world, full of logic and banalities,
         I sit on the old swingset kicking my feet
    Hoping it will let me *soar

We all lie to a beggar
When asked if we have some to spare
If we did not have to spare
Then we too would be beggars