Jul 2012
That night did you feel my hand trembling as I held my finger against the trigger of a 22 guage handgun.
Did you hear my tear drops hit the floor when I realized that I wasn’t man enough to do it.
Do you taste the bile in my mouth every time I try to drink myself to death,
Or maybe you heard the wails of my mother whenever she found out that her son was a ***, slapping her head like I had just set her on fire.
I apologize for my unorganized poetry.
With its lack of rhyme scheme and rhythm,
But quite frankly I’m tired of putting on a show.
I don’t like sitting in your office waiting for your approval to speak.
Or listening to your sob stories about the lack of thanks we’ve shown you.
It’s just not enough that we’re expected to call you a father figure and polish your statues and play hop scotch across bricks with your name on them.
And let’s not forget the theatrical performances staged in your name.
But no Mr. President there is yet to be built an ivory tower in your name with a sacrificial fire burning at its feet.
Because it would honestly get your attention more if I just threw myself into its flames while shouting odes to you in Latin.
Really what is my worth to you.
The price tags hanging above your thousands of children are not equal, so I would really like to be rung up and placed in a plastic bag, just so I could see my receipt.
Did you hear my tear drops hit the floor when I realized that I wasn’t man enough to do it.
Do you taste the bile in my mouth every time I try to drink myself to death,
Or maybe you heard the wails of my mother whenever she found out that her son was a ***, slapping her head like I had just set her on fire.
I apologize for my unorganized poetry.
With its lack of rhyme scheme and rhythm,
But quite frankly I’m tired of putting on a show.
I don’t like sitting in your office waiting for your approval to speak.
Or listening to your sob stories about the lack of thanks we’ve shown you.
It’s just not enough that we’re expected to call you a father figure and polish your statues and play hop scotch across bricks with your name on them.
And let’s not forget the theatrical performances staged in your name.
But no Mr. President there is yet to be built an ivory tower in your name with a sacrificial fire burning at its feet.
Because it would honestly get your attention more if I just threw myself into its flames while shouting odes to you in Latin.
Really what is my worth to you.
The price tags hanging above your thousands of children are not equal, so I would really like to be rung up and placed in a plastic bag, just so I could see my receipt.
