We are hands,
and eyes,
and feet, and ears,
lumps of skin,
and bone.
We are puddles of blood
filling the cracks
on the side of the road.
We are mush,
and porcelain teeth
knocked out and embedded
where the steering wheel used to be.
We are hearts, and veins,
arteries clogged up
with a midnight treat.
We are alcohol in the blood stream.
We are 60 miles per hour,
on a residential street.
We are a corpse,
Limbs thrown out like a compass,
Guts spilled out like a teenage poet.
But what we are not,
Is a soul.
We are objects,
We are play things.
For higher species,
Godly beings.
To smile like kids crashing toy cars.
We are empty,
We are just vessels in a blood stream,
Giving life .
We are white noise, screaming for our mothers.
We are a name in a notepad.
A statistic in a book,
Passed out at clever Christian fundraisers,
For old ladies who like sugar cookies.
We are a pop punk song
With memorable lyrics
And a catchy hook .
-Kevin T. 6/16/10