When I was a child
they said I needed Jesus
promised salvation with a cross
violent death bleeding
and my submission
is what it costs.

But now that life
has changed me
and knowledge
seen me transformed
I cannot return
to that garden.
One more reason
I can’t go home.

Little boy brown
dusted by broken buildings
smoking ground, and busted concrete.

Little one with a red shirt
I cannot say if it was
made that way
by the manufacturer
or this man made
disaster.

Little child laying down
on a rubble bed
by his little brother.
Instead of playing childish games
now two children lay
posed in death's way.

Little life left
in this mess
but plenty of
blame and sorrow
to share.

They did not come with super suits
tight black leather, flame retardant,
massively muscled or otherwise.

They did not bring sacramental salvation
speaking in tongues while healing the sick
at the feet of saints and seraphim.

Instead, they came as strangers
speaking words of wisdom and compassion.
They came as counselors, and teachers
with kind hearts and good intentions.
They came to help and we are all
better for their goodness.

I am tired, so tired
Of ancient relics
Stark statues
That mark
Old attitudes
Bad ideals  
Enshrined in
The sacred skin
Of spiritual devotion

I am tired
Of blind faith
Celebrating hate
Bathing those
Who wait
In the blood of
Ignorance and violence

I am tired
Of the unreading masses
Thinking that they are
Taking me to task
For my bad ideas
Smart mouths
With no solid stance
To back up
Their empty chants

I am tired
Of the primed populations
Bending to the will of
Wealthy preachers
Who give less then
A particle for the truth
And make a fool
Out of all those who
Pay them
To play them

Im not angry only disheartened. I offered you a universe of wonder and you chose a dull road of uninformed and camouflaged conformity.

you cannot unwalk the bridge you have crossed
you cannot unknow the fresh taste of enlightenment
once you have breathed it in
there is no way back
to an illusory net of safety
take courage
spread your wings
and fly

©2016janetaylor

It is not your room.
The wound is not
your wound,
so you do not feel
as if the pain is real

but the blood is factual.
The loss is actual.
The costs are varied.
Each face
wears sorrow’s
sick slick scars.

I can see them
from where you are.
Why can’t you?

Corporate engineering with slight color variations
and logo imprintations do not impress me.
Assembly lines do not find or make time
to free the proletariat’s enslaved mind.
They just distract us with delusions of
capitalistically designed versions of individuality.
The fact is unbridled greed can only collapse this
mad consumer society,
because selfishness subtracts the humanity
that got us to this age in the first place.

I think his name was Sam.
There was poetry behind his face,
Wrinkled and world weary
brown and drawn
deep and porous
battle damaged
from fights and loves
from losses,

now blind.
Half a homeless heart
still hoping to be reunited
with the other part.

With his last bucks,
He buys his lover
A shiny trinket.
Taps the sidewalk
with a thin white stick,
hungry
but holding on to
the precious gift.
which he will give
his Italian lover
when they meet again.

In dreams he sees,
not blind but two young studs
still so much in love
with a full future ahead.

Cold concrete and pillow
for his head
one blanket
and hope, a fruit dangling,
just barely on this side of death.
He is alive
and still in love

Rules do not make something
Right or wrong
Talking heads do not
Make something
Right or wrong
Fake gods
Do not make
Something
Right or wrong
Traditions
Just because
It was
Always done
Does not make
Something
Right or wrong
Your law
Does not make
Something
Right or wrong

An explosion
Rage at the system
Red
Violent
Rage at injustice
Blood
Anger
Rage forced inwards
Backlashes
Brawls
Or Self-harm
And the rage
Rages on