Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2014
He walks with chains
his brown skin, his tired, old, tired, old, tired, old-tired hands
his heavy *** memories of lost, dead homeboys, his fear of loss, of inadequacy, of a multiple choice exam, it's easier to hold a gun, to act bad ***, than to be called a ***, after all **** are real men, cuz they know how to take it ... but no, he don't like them looking in his eyes as they dive into his flesh, he flies away and just lets his body there, numb, hot, sweaty and convulsing, filled with pleasure but soul-less, spiritless, without identity, it's just flesh and ***, all mixed into one.
Xuanito de la Puente
Written by
Xuanito de la Puente  Las Vegas
(Las Vegas)   
697
   Jonny Angel
Please log in to view and add comments on poems