"prestige" poems
1:11am:
in my lungs you breed a pale disease
you are even in the air I breathe
3:29am:
heart in half chasing electronic dreams in technicolour screams
your claws in my teeth as I drown out my whims
3:45am:
and all the nights I spent lying in the freezer
and all the little lies we wasted telling each other
and even as you left I had not come around
I was the reckless wrecking havoc on wicked ground
4:59am:
last night I was flying around
dazed and dazed and dazed all over
awaiting my jewelled crown
adorned with the prestige of an empire
even in a new cage I could not throw you out
5:27am:
even as the sun rises surely troubles stay the same
even if you came back now I would gladly play your games
even after all this while all the daze you left me in
still you are imperial and my grailed heart it shakes like porcelain
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
Trampling through their city paths,
Hunting ground, mean street.
They perch aloft towers of oak;
Dripping with prestige vine, wrapped
With silk leaves, soft to touch
And hard to climb.
The Sun sets over the seven lakes
Of spring kissed, freshly mown
Fields of scorn blessed by
Solitudal and beady eyes.
Gates keeping out the world that
Wishes them harm.
They sit so high peering down,
At our destitution, our self-prohetised Might!
And think:
“Pfft you all wish you could fly
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:24 AM UTC
What is being intelligent?
Is intelligent being a person who’s a prestige's individual that mastered every curricular course
And can solve every question with no hesitation
Or
A person with Down syndrome, Autism, Mental Retardation, etc…
That has a unique characteristic that makes them who they are and do things other people can’t?
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Tonight I learned what it means to be mortal. To have a fifteen year dream crushed publicly. To smile and be the man that lies, “it’s ok, God has better plans and I trust that.” Tonight my wings were clipped and I was sentenced to a life of soil and toil, forever forced to watch the eagles in orange soar in the clouds and sky that I know I was created to own. I love this place because it is more of a home than I have ever known. It is pure and navy and orange and majestic. I wanted to serve it and glorify my king and this institution. Alas, no. Not I but the vultures. How is it that carrion dominate? How is it that prestige trumps passion? How is it that title and gold trump heart and integrity? I lost respect for my home. I feel as if a stranger in my own walls. I gave more than sweat and blood and tears yet they were swept under the carpet to rot. Fester and rot. I hope my passion and time as leader was well spent, it was and always was for you, tiger, not me! Always! I sharpened your claws and defended your teeth until they ****** me. Why. This is not how it is supposed to be. I pray this love and three year passion was not for non. Not for me, not for nametags or orange jackets, not for titles or for comfort but for passion and unbridled love of the institution which ****** me have I served. I have yet to work through what I’ve learned through this but tonight I know a chapter has ended and it hurts. It’s not that the chapter ended and a period was placed and the next began, it’s the end of the climactical chapter and the next pages are blank. Existent, yes. But blank. And the white on the page pales in comparison to orange and blue. I hate white and it’s idle uncertainty. I hold the pen but tonight my hand was severed, my limbs they rot, and my heart is numb. I am jello and I am free. And I hate, with every inth of my fibrous being, this freedom. I miss my chains.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
You’re pretty… he says
for a dark-skinned girl
I usually don’t talk to your kind.
am I supposed to feel honor?
you hopped of your pedestal, down to mine?
I will not curve my lips into the half of the crescent moon that you’re expecting
you do not deserve that.
exclusion encumbers me and I am small in your eyes.
Surely you can see that I am a dark girl, sweet berries ; color of night
the same colors that allowed my ancestors to take flight.
freeing them from *******
wounds that had them tied, without my hue, we would’ve died.
I am a stone immortal, no work of erosion can seep through my cracks.
the trials of my ancestors drawn on their backs.
so our heads, we never hang down , we are to be found.
scars to be hidden
it is the gas in a run-away car,
that last sip an alcoholic has as their arm and wrist lay dangling at the bar
this is the prestige of my hue
if I’m just pretty? then what could beauty possibly mean to you. a rare blend of history, struggle and strength.
My head will not hang, not once more
by noose or in self distress, I am history.
No more do I long to sit at a table with you,
in the wake of waiting for your admiration
I have created my own table, in appreciation of your hesitation.
To you my worth will always be in comparison to what’s missing
that being pretty for a dark-skin girl, is a blessing.
Worth far more than bedazzled insults
, convinced I was worth less
they could see it in my eyes, the way I dressed.
The hue that I am is far greater than they told me
accepting back handed accolades, that’s the old me.
This house that holds my soul is only almost pretty… they say
if I weren’t so dark I might be worth loving, caring wanting or staying.
My color, a rustic espresso, no cream.
you say I am pretty for a dark- skinned girl …
no I’m pretty and that’s it!
signed a FED UP dark skinned chick
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 1:56 AM UTC
Four parts, woven together
Uniting all universal truths
What others do with it's powers
Only the future will prove
The first strand displays the world's true nature
Destroying everything it creates
We become unwanted children
Who have learned to incorporate
Killing in our communities
Biting, grinding flesh and bone
Swallowing with guilt free demeanors
Only leaving foul-stenched excretions as evidence
Second Strand speaks of our basic biological anxiety
To deny the terror of death
Imperatively born, emerging from nothing
Given a name and consciousness
Hopelessly abandoned from the beginning
Only to be fated always with everlasting death
Strand three
We hide underneath the
"Vital lie of the character"
Pretend to be shining knights in armor
Who will make us forget our
Unconscious anxiousness of death
We all work to attain prestige, money, and the
Fleeting feel of immortality
Worshiping Gods with clay feet
And when our beliefs are attacked
"Holy wars" becomes the pseudonym for
Our immortality projects
The last strand
All the efforts we put into
Making this Earth perfect
By eliminating scapegoat "enemies" and "evil" deities
We end up making everything filthy
In the effort to make everything right and pure
We turn the Earth's soil black and color the sky red
We strived for utopias, making dystopians
All these actions seem unconscious
But it is not the animals nature or
Evolutionary process
It's just us trying to pretend
We don't have perishable bodies;
Trying to deny death
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Dragged in the corner of the room
My porcelain face started to crack
But I was made with eyes that cannot cry
I was given to you as a present
I was a sign of prestige for young girls
But I was put behind the wardrobe
I understand my looks gave you creeps
But my smile was genuine
Yet my stare was far off from this world
I wasn't given a life, only pretty colors
Etched on my skin were features of a human girl
On porcelain skin, I cannot show emotions
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
He has no face
or desire
to face
the large grate
And inside
the wicket of the grate
The little door
to the larger gate
One side named narrow
The door knob's
apprehensions
twist in the fingertips
The other side
slides to the indifference
The 69 peep holes rock in
scandalization
How does one survive ?
The false prophet goes
door to door
selling sheep skin
diplomas
black as raven's hair
His false fruit
lays fermenting adding
pollution to our despair .
The prophet's basic fault is full of self interests
For gain and grain of easy life
For personal prestige
through others pain and strife
His man-centered words
appeal to the ears that want to be tickled with ear candy
And the results are that truth be forgotten , trampled to dust and thrown away
Beware of the smooth tongue Jacob with
the rough hairy hands
of Esau .
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 8:26 PM UTC
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Profits
Power and
Prestige
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Privacy
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
….But
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for
Silence
Acceptance and
Despair
Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
Hard
….No matter the
Cost or
Conditions
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
…..But
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied
Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
Vacant-eyed
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forgotten
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
….But
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal
Self-righteousness
Life
Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Gmail, and Instagram.
Shampoo, soap bar, toothbrush,
toothpaste, temperature, and time.
Shaving cream, razor, running water,
advertisements, sensitivity, precision, and cuts.
Burned tongue, empty stomach, loose tie,
missing shirt buttons, beating the clock,
wallet, briefcase, and car keys.
Ballpoint pens, scented trees, fast food wrappers,
loose change, lighters, citations, ***** clothes,
CDs, and napkins.
Red lights, pedestrians, homeless people,
newspapers, billboards, pets on leashes, sewer
grates, crosswalks, skyscrapers, and garbage.
Faxes, printers, memorandums, break room,
prestige, cubicles, customer service, paperweights,
filing cabinets, stocks, and corporate.
Wipers, streetlights, rain coats, dive bars,
and home.
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
If I crossed the street I would've been in the district with all the black kids
I begged my mom to take me there.
If I crossed the street I wouldn't have gotten IB
I wouldn't have gotten the prestige
That I thought everyone deserved
Saving me almost a year of college
And money like a scholarship.
If I crossed the street I wouldn't, as much, question my identity.
I wouldn't be single and question my beauty through white eyes
I would learn how to answer questions in class without feeling my white peers lying their eyes on me to see if the black girl could get it.
If I crossed the street I wouldn't be the only black girl in my classes.
If I crossed the street I wouldn't have to feel like MLK day was my job to announce according to my substitute teacher.
Because you know what week it is! Well of course you know girl.
If I crossed the street I would've been with my black brothers and sisters
Rather than trying to find my black experience in my white friends
But I didn't cross the street.
Maybe it took a bit longer to learn to love my black because of that.
But today I love myself
No matter what border I reach
And who disclaims or proclaims my authenticity.
I love my black self.
Maybe I wasn't supposed to cross the street
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
tire siine meñ dam hai dil nahīñ hai
tirā dam garmi-e-mahfil nahīñ hai
Ambition rests within your chest but not a heart
Your wheedling, warmth of assembly is not nor its art
guzar jā aql se aage ki ye nuur
charāġh-e-rāh hai manzil nahīñ hai!
Go beyond paths of reason in quest of light
Lamp of the way it is but not a destination
ḳhirad ke paas ḳhabar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
tirā ilaaj nazar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
Intellect has news and nothing more
A divine glance is your cure and nothing more
har ik maqām se aage maqām hai terā
hayāt zauq-e-safar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
Beyond all ranks is your prestige
Life is a delightful journey and nothing more
ragoñ meñ gardish-e-ḳhūñ hai agar to kyā hāsil
hayāt soz-e-jigar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
If veins have flowing blood, then what is the reward?
An existence with a burning heart and nothing more
jise kasād samajhte haiñ tājirān-e-farañg
vo shai mata-e-hunar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
What traders of the West consider as synthetic?
These are entities of flawless craft and nothing more
urūs-e-lāla munāsib nahīñ hai mujh se hijāb
ki maiñ nasīm-e-sahar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
Bride like a radiant tulip, why modesty from me?
Morning breeze I am and nothing more
baḌā karīm hai 'iqbāl'-e-be-navā lekin
atā-e-shola sharar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
Very gracious is voiceless Iqbal and yet
A gifted flame with sparks of fire and nothing more
✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain
Words of Muhammad Iqbal
Apr 6, 2022
Apr 6, 2022 at 7:17 PM UTC
My name is not romantic
neither is it fantastic
I am in the midst of men
commanding all human
I caused man a lot
Many suffer because of me
Others die because of me
Nothing Can be done without me
Everything is done by me
I break the chain of unity
Mean couples divorce because of my absence
When my voice speaks
it shuts all the mouths of truth
Those who have me in abundance
Turns to command respect and prestige
from those who search for me with courage
without knowing I disappoint the trust of a man
My searchers are my manufacturers
my lovers are those I lynched silently
I pray people don't recognize my inner self
because I am toxic and made from that
which I am
Am I not like the light?
makes the path clear in the dark
for all human to follow
I can't forget myself that
All that glitters not gold
It would have been better for man
to search for love and wisdom
than wasting precious time
killing and dying for me
I am only a deceiver of souls
making them believe my absence is a curse
so they can hurt and hate to purify their souls
but it is difficult to wake up the person not sleeping
How I hate those who handle me with their conscience
Helping others to recognize they can be happy without me
How I hate those who think I am not all about the world
Making others not to value me
I am the only voice of the world and
I am the only killer of the body and soul
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
Hello Mr.Law nice to meet you
I can only assume what you plan to do
Fill your palace with another criminal
An outweighed sentence and your sympathy minimal
Haha! But look at this I've got money this time!
The representation of wealth and greed is sublime
Prestige on my side and there goes your jurisdiction
So, You grant me diversion to heal my minds affliction?
Fancy be and fancy sells - I'm content with this fine
To be told what I've learned through all the signs
A psychiatric assessment to tell me i'm me
Mental illness is just humanity can't you see?
Thanks for the counselling I've learned oh so much
A man is what he is and you have told me as such
Individuality is a sickness and needs to be medicated
The soul who lacks conformity needs to be domesticated
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
I’ve spent thousands of
smiling hours
cupping the soft pit
of intellect in my hands
preening with its glow,
casting the shadow of lecture
on my greedy eyes.
when my feet sank
beneath her earthly soil
weeks slipped quiet
(like notes shaken from leather spines)
with no discussion of Plato.
the hardened sphere was
drained of all prestige
footnote and reference.
sometimes, before sleep,
I sharpen my doubts
and carve it out.
it sleeps by me,
a guilty golden mistress.
I am afraid
she will hear the warmth
through my phone.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
Bloated belly, swollen cheeks,
and a sunken stiff neck on robust torso.
Yet well fitted in flowing apparels;
falling and being raised frequently
from side to side.
Obscene opulence is your delight,
your prestige and your pride;
amassed unlawfully by the pen,
ever wet for your deception
and thievery.
The flight of your spoils of office
enlarge the shopping Malls and treasure houses
of the Occident,
leaving your covetous people
deprived of earning power.
To arms they take at boredom's peak,
whilst your virgins and maidens go a-whoring.
Still, you in your sinister acts of re-election,
widen their capacity for Evil, just to have
your sit-tight bid guaranteed you.
Jul 16, 2022
Jul 16, 2022 at 3:36 PM UTC
Like a child, I don't know how to love in halves.
I ignite, touch the sky, and crash.
I sun-tan and smile, laying in the ash.
Like a soldier, I don't live in half.
Like an earthquake, I tend to reach too far.
Always chasing round mistakes at bars,
or running down mad shooting stars.
Like resolutions, I never get too far.
Like Atlas, I pose proud for all eyes,
using my burden as the prestige disguise,
I keep hidden my motives and all I despise.
Like believers, not blind, I just close my eyes.
Like the night, I'm destined to die young.
Even if death comes at one hundred and one,
to the door of one loved and a job well done.
Like the last breath off innocence, I'll still be too young.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
Why the **** is there
all this disdain for varied techniques?
So what if I like altered guitar tunings?
Sorry that all my guitars
are in D Standard or drop C.
Yes, even the ******* Classical guitar.
*I never meant to inconvenience you,
your Eminent Prestige!*
Maybe it's a problem
on thy knavish behalf
that you can't cope
with variation within the
Sacred realm of Art.
Don't ******* tell me
what to do or how to do it.
Don't ******* tell me
my approach to my Art is wrong.
Don't ******* crawl to me
when you want to learn how it's done
and I won't say I ******* told you so
when you confess your perspective lacks variety.
I will still teach you, though,
that is, if you will listen.
I will still teach you, though,
if, indeed, I can.
I will still teach you, though,
but only if you can teach me, too.
I will still learn from you
despite your rigid adherence to traditionalism.
I will still learn from you
if you don't ******* condescend me
about how I decide to do it
about how it feels most natural
about what I like or why;
just ******* deal with it
like a true Artist;
accept it and bask in it,
that everyone's technique
is unique.
Besides,
be it not that very variation
that lends itself to the plethora of Art
that has been, could be, and will be made?
Be it not that very variation
that leads a school of thought
away from being so incestuous
that it kills itself off?
Be it not that very variation
which makes Democracy feasible?
If Art be neither
democratic or anarchic,
then I guess I'm no Artist.
Just ******* deal with it.
If you can't: then shut the **** up,
and let us, who can deal with it,
just ******* do it.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
I remember one time, way back when I was ten years old
I was watching my friend do his homework
His mom trying to balance cooking and helping him out
Racing between the oven and his side
And I recall sitting there and staring at his paper
Excitement and intrigue was filling my mind
Envying his prestige, just a few grades ahead of me
I couldn’t wait to do homework like that
A fistful of years fleetingly flew by
With my fists closed, I would wait at bus stop after bus stop
Until I was at the same one as him
But I wanted to grow up so badly and be like he was
Instead I lived ahead of the present
Waiting at the wrong bus stop for a bus that would never show
One filled with experience and insight
Now I just have a blank paper in front of me that’s white.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
Long hours, late nights, many sleepless nights
Tired feet galore
Dorothy’s discarded her Ruby Slippers for shoes of glass
But Glinda kept the magic
The feminine Tin man with his girlish heart and voice
Has had a *** change now
And how a dress of mesh fits 'em oh so well
Toto was put down for eating one of the slippers
Been replaced by house keeping mice
At least they can't chew glass
Scarecrow gained prestige and balance
Those things of which he lacked
The Cowardly Lion shaved his curly mop
We still haven’t seen him since
Aunty Em gained the crown she very much deserved
Uncle Henry preferred the merchant life
Since the Wizard foresaw their separation
Now Cinderella’s in a tizzy
Her stepsisters make her dizzy
And truth be told, you never hear
She had a bit too much to drink, so near
to the ball, first dress was ripped
The other slipped far off her head when she tripped
One shoe on, the other gone
And the rest….
Well, you know.
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 6:12 AM UTC
Cow itch circle the hills
Picking up speed, what a nuisance:
My body became numb: the torturous seeds
The native never seem move: by the “muckleheads”.
The itch and the sand flies: a duel team
I was the victim: The vice was on my back
Under house arrest, a meltdown I was so trap
It was time to leave all of the seedpods behind
Fever, malaise, drenching sweats and chills:
I remember once I told a fan, about my kind of therapy
My morning’s session, of cleansing the mind
A blast of my past: the uneven dots on my temple walls
Am I making a break through, nope I never had closure,
The groom wore red, on his special day.
I was the one that wore velvety black,
but I celebrated their reunion with a tall glass of
Ca’ del Bosco Cuvée Prestige Brut, Franciacorta DOCG.
Wine:
I’m far too clever to be taken likely:
So, I let my poetry writing do its own disciplined
"If you can’t be a poet, be the poem. – David Carradine"
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
It took a very long time for A to find B,
and possibly even longer for A with B to get to C,
then D shadowed, and along came easy E,
F hurried, G stumbled, and before you know it,
H pushed, I shoved, J fell, K and L bullied,
doormen and bouncers hired,
and hooked red velvet guest rope installed.
M and N showed legs and other stuff,
O accommodated, P arrived peeing and puking,
Q wandered in by mistake,
R flashed cash, S slid unscathed,
T grinned teeth, U did what?
V spread, W wowed,
and the rest, X, Y, Z,
is history.
If death is nothing, why fear it?
Is it the indifference of nothingness that disturbs the living?
All the energy and effort spent?
Unfinished business? Dead silence?
Or is it the tickle on skin of summer breeze?
Astonishing possibilities?
Privilege of existence?
There are moments when I
almost do it,
a very fragile brink, I want to
call, see, be with her so bad.
No matter what, I miss,
adore her intelligence, sense of humor, moods, body, beauty.
Why?
If death is nothing, why fear it?
Eyes perceive
group of young men approaching
momentary assumptions of danger
passes as inner fear and distrust
process high-spirited partying.
Z: “This is confusing. Put your thoughts in order.”
Y: “But there is no true order.”
Z: “Before you speak another word,
what you got to bring to the table?
Money? Property? Prestige?”
Y: “I offer poetry, ash drawings, new architecture.”
Z: “Lay it on the line, you ****** or be punished!”
Y: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Z: “Burn this ******* on a stake,
then eat remains.”
******** runs in pleading for dickwad’s life,
but it’s too late.
******** sits chewing charred flesh at table.
Biscuits get passed around vigorously.
No talk about death.
A: “Who’s the one?”
B: “You are, Daddy.”
A: “But I’m just a tiny force of nature.”
B: “Let’s go see about C.”
A: “Am I not enough for you?”
C: “What and where is love?
Is it an illusion
I strive for an impossible chance?
When will we find each other?
Will I feel belonging?”
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
"Will you marry me?”
whispered her sly slivers of purple,
prestige and occasional lie five years later.
And had we not been asunder
that very same altar we’d sought fallen stars on
several days prior, I’d have said, “no.”
Sure, she’d brought a bounty oranges,
but could he, if ever, answer with the hand
that’d waived like the incense before?
He said “yes.”
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
I was just walking around and spotted a golden ladder.
People walking past it, a swarm of people are under it
Yelling up at people, cheering loud when anyone falls down
Some fall and are slightly bruised, some aren't so lucky
Some charge right back up while others walk away sobbing.
As I walked closer, this ladder seems wider at the bottom
And narrows the higher it gets towards the top.
Using binoculars, I saw people climbing up and down it.
I even see some climbers kicking others down
As they climb and take their place like a rat race.
Racing up fast to get a bite of the cheese.
Some are taking their time, others are dashing.
The crowd underneath are cheering for those to fall
I walked closer, a few people looked scared
Desiring to be successful, but fearful to fall
So they never try, they become one with the crowd
The scornful, the haters, and the ones whom fallen.
So I touched the bar, instantly the boos began
Telling me that I am worthless, I will never succeed.
I touched the next bar, feeling hands on my feet
Feeling jealousy and envy by others under me.
I've just started this journey, I climbed higher
Trying to grab the arms of those that are falling.
The top of the ladder is so high that I can't see it
But I know that it's there, there has to be a ceiling.
And what's beyond the ceiling, who really knows?
I hear rumors of prestige, riches, luxury,
Honor, power, but is it really a myth?
As I climb, the crowd throws rocks at the climbers
Helping them to lose their grips and fall off.
The more I climb, the more callous is on my palms
My arms growing sorer, feet sweaty,
Head dizzy, fears increasing, scared to fall
Second guessing the desire to climb this ladder
But at the end, is it really worth it?
Climbing up the ladder of success.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
I’m the degenerate you love to hate,
the unclean sinner who won’t tow the line.
You ridicule my independence at dinner parties,
among similarly dressed cronies,
the institutionalized prisoners
of prestige.
Hate us all, the degenerates.
Scorn the indie musician on the sidewalk.
He colors the dull march of the khakis.
Despise the painter in welfare housing.
She strokes thick lines of anguish
upon uncomfortable canvases.
Taunt the quiet poet at the end of the bar.
He writes raw truth on napkins gone ignored.
Loathe the degenerates you secretly *****
when fashionable friends aren’t looking.
Eyes fixed upon your contemptuous smirk,
I am unable to cast judgment upon you.
Another degenerate spreads her tattooed thighs
without any hope of acceptance.
She only wishes to feel for a moment
the intoxicating sensation of
temporary love.
The degenerate’s ****** is the richest syrup
that briefly covers your vanilla routines.
Debauchery provides you a moment
to feel freedom within slums,
the pleasures of darkness,
the uninhibited passions of a life
without approval.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC