Growing up on a steady diet
of physical fear
and old Country songs
coalesces a taught wire
of rage and wallowing
forever lashed to a survival fetish
no one ever asked to be upheld.

Ubiquitous anger is just sorrow
aspiring to a loftier identity.
It hides amidst the panic
of what the wielder might do. Pushes away
when craving empathy
we don’t feel will be delivered,
If no one is ever
given a chance to show up,
it’s because
they’d have never done so anyhow.

So we start wars intending to die
but keep coming back
like the pain of teenage nihilism once you realize
everything you ever thought
was true
came to fruition.

There's a certain point, where
your hardships and pain
belong to no one else.
While you were busy locking your feet in place and
manipulating the same wet rag
wrapped around your heart,
living still needed to get done.

However we can still find that darkness
blocking the way down the hall
and hold it’s hand intensely.
Not placating to buy time,
but the real kind of empathy. The blistering high lonesome sound
of bones cracking with a smile
under the weight you were never
asked to shoulder.

When a dying man asks
if he’s going to be ok,
never say yes,
but be absolutely certain
to never tell the truth.