So this is what
Dying inside
Most resembles
I get all depressed
And I never
Write better
Just give me four walls
And occasional light
And I’ll gladly dwell
Well
In a cell of my plight
Not in spite
Of the doubt
I can make it out there
But in fear
I’d be living
The daily nightmare

Hey you guise
What is really your name
What primordial phantoms
Still dance in the rain
What enchants you
Romances your
Dark necromancy
And grants its surrender
Without sycophancy
Reveals inner-workings
Of secrets entombed
What it feels
Like a gentle,
Identical wound
And it sees through
To where
You must shed
The veneer
And it shows you the way
That you truly appear

Still slingin’
‘Dem warhawks
Right ‘outta the skies
And exposing the con-artist
Fascist disguise
Give a ****
On what side
Of the aisle
You’re on
If you lie, cheat and steal
From the people
You’re done

Try to learn from it
For there was a moment
In it
When you truly loved each other
You went with it
For you’d miss it
In the presence of another
For its absence
Was a future
Tends to spell
Impermanence
But we dispel it
As a nemesis
Of consciousness
Submits
Like flags in tatters,
Nothing matters,
It is useless to resist
So surrender
As it were
To her most enduring
Vow
And if it isn’t you
Still solemn
Be her sacrificial cow
And take to heart,
Not yet apart,
Remain rejoicing
In the now

This is the end
Of my life
I’m afraid
Where do memories go
When they cease to be made
Do they fade
Isolated
In coffins contained
Or live on
In some legacy
Shouldering blame
For the cornerstone laid,
For its labor unpaid,
For the road to extinction
For profits is paved

Crooked cops
Crop-dusting
Walking dead drops
Set up shop
Cracking rock
The crime lords of the block,
Never stopping
Mass production
Mass incarcerate
Consumption
Just repackaged
And reformed it
Into urban deconstruction
Underfunded housing project
For an upper
Classpiration
Gentrifying
Higher rises
Like a fentanyl
Sedation
Running rampant
Through the streets
And through the flesh and bone
It eats
And as the door comes crashing down
Its execution
Is complete
And so in summary
Impunity
With which it gets away
Has ever been
And ever will be
Making freedmen
Into slaves

In the farthest-flung fringe
A far cry from response
There resides an outsider
Comprised of what haunts
Him, a scribe to his host
To the world
A ghost writer
Askance in his stance
On the evil empire
Exile imposed
On his selfish desire
The ills of his making
Have taken too much
So afflict him with vision
But gift him no brush
For he will just
Depict it
As cognizant dust
As an infinite sorrow
Ephemeral joy
But what else makes a man
Of a scared little boy?