This is so strange.
Real life has become
a weird painting,
of mirrors showing
past reflections
and present hopes.

The art of love
has become
the style of dodging
bullets from guns
that are yet to come.

The nightmares
from which we run
hold no promise
of waking from
them with the
rising sun.

Either or
has transformed
neighbors into
states at war.
People who do not
know what this
violence is for
still spout off,
instead of asking
for a little more
information.

All the saints have died,
and now we spy
exhausted angels
in nurse’s attire
that collapse and cry,
while moms walk and try
to convince strangers
that their child’s life
is worth more than
a policeman’s
tarnished pride. cont.

My light is one suicide
at a time,
as love and hope
crumbles and dies
with the rich man’s finger’s
around the earth’s throat,
as the media tells
his favorite lies.

Tonight, is the fourth of July.
My neighbors sit and celebrate
a nation not yet made great
because it wallows in filth and rage,
boiled in a stinking stew of ignorance.

I will go to sleep.
Then tomorrow
as I awake and shake off
the dust
for a second, I will be certain.
I will smile with hope.
Till, I see my reflections
and remember this
is a world made from
a collection
of bad decisions
after bad decisions,
while few even listen
to the words of wisdom
that have been written.

Still, I will write this poem again,
just a little different.