#offenders
Naive, I was not. I grew up
on tattered books and nihilistic ideals
while the other children read
books about stuffed bears and trees.
They warned me about the addicts:
The fiends with black capes and red eyes,
the ones who wander the night, searching
for new corners and new highs.
They warned me about the *** offenders:
The neighborhood sweethearts with soft eyes
and cold hands, who are more often than not,
but not restricted to the body, of middle-aged men.
They warned me about the murderers:
The ones with ice for pupils and books of spells.
Who drank smoke and whose hearts reside
in the far off corner somewhere in east hell.
These are the people my parents forgot to warn me about:
The lovers with a knack for spoon feeding me lies, whose
wings were black and who were blessed
with golden eyes.
They didn't warn me about the pretty boys.
About the ones who cup your heart
in their hands, and play around with it like putty.
Somehow, they forgot to mention that part.
But, then again, you can't teach a child about heartache,
and the only way a child will know what you mean when you
tell them that the stove is hot is if they burn themselves
on the warm, steel door that is life.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
You want me to tell you, it's over
no more blood or useless death
It'll never happen again
wasted and worthless the breath
A fluke and a twist of bad fate
a fool with bullets, a gun
The child petulant reviled
but dangerous, down, too each one
Where O where are the parents?
the idiot creators of hell
Making up creatures and monsters
yet not recognizing their smell
So do as you wish, be ye righteous
and believe that all children are mild
Hold too the notion of innocence
but all demons created
go wild
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 9:27 PM UTC