"shotguns" poems
I posted this poem a few days after I joined HP. As is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions. With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked. Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week. So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.
March 2012
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
I hit a Jack Rabbit going sixty or seventy five,
I turned off the radio,
I was on the road for 18 hours already,
thats when shadows come alive,
I never hit anything before,
never killed anything that big.
When I was 14, I lived in Kansas, Kansas city granted,
but Kansas all the same.
We would go to my friends farm,
he owned enough guns for a small militia,
mostly shotguns.
There were 3 of us, with three scatter killing booms.
We would rake the fields to flush anything out,
crickets,
grasshoppers,
we hoped for ducks or quail
(I only pretended too, I wasn't sure then if my ***** really dropped)
and we would shoot,
Sometimes for the noise,
other times for the show.
I never killed anything.
On the way back home I saw a little chickadee perched high in a tree,
I shot,
and he fell.
"Nice one man!"
I ran over, hiding my tears, and buried him.
I got out of there as soon as I could, Kansas that is,
I was stuck at the farm.
Eight years later and I'm still not sure about my *****
This time I didn't bury him.
I like to think it was male,
for some reason that lessens the pain.
I don't know if I crushed the life out of him quickly,
I imagine it was slow,
toturing myself with every detail as my retribution.
Made a nice thump though.
I could feel his delicate body even through the tire the shocks and the rest of the parts between me and his ****** corpse.
Softer than a speed bump.
Why did Dorothy ever go home.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC
If you take my gun
You may as well take my rights
I have the right to bear arms
To protect my fortress
To defend my family
I will use everything
Machine guns
Shotguns
High-power rifles
Anything
So I can feel secure
Around bullets of death
3 people lie motionless
Blood seeping from shell wounds
In the middle of a crowded mall
12 people lay lifeless
Two years since their last death
In the middle of a movie theater
28 innocent souls lay empty
Most of whom couldn't understand
In the middle of a elementary school
What other people do with their weapons
Doesn't concern me
I will protect myself with my shotgun
My machine gun
My high-powered rifle
Maybe I'll teach my child how to shoot
So one day he can protect his family
With assault weapons
The victims of the crazed people
Those insignificant others
Are not dead by the shooters gun
But by the shooter's insanity
Those insignificant others
Were just poor, unlucky souls
Insignificant souls
When I get older
And not fit to live
I'm going to give my machine gun
My shotgun
To my son
So he can hold the fortress
And protect his family
From those insignificant others
Those poor, innocent souls
That will awake from the grave
That will trespass his property
That will look him in the eye
With the wounds from Sandy Hook
Aurora Movie Theater
Columbia Mall
Still viciously bleeding
And dare him to shoot again
To protect his cold-blooded ignorance
RIP Brianna Benlolo and Tyler Johnson
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
How she silences all my senses remains a mystery to me. She numbs my core but yet makes it beat rapidly.
My insides turn to jelly whenever she gnaws at my belly, when she sinks her nails into my back and bites my bottom lip like a liquorice stick.
Some others would call her a bottom ****, but there's so much more to her being than being more than a side chick.
She sings melodies which resonate with the hums of my heart when we touch,
much of which is far from lust but is purely just.
To me she's more than a nutbust, she's more of an infinite ****** from which i cannot overcome.
VS
my botttom ***** she.. changed the scene, I: the bottom ***** loved and gave in once again, Into all the blissful ******** she spewed using her tongue.
Her tongue numbing everything...everything except my hands clenching, gripping knuckles turning white, my teeth drawing blood from my bottom lip.
she walked out, leaving me , bleeding , aching core. she left my house, my little bit of heaven.
Calls at 3am , the top, begging to be let it and just like that the words " go **** yourself " stuck in my throat yet my arms are missing you.
i turn to mush when you make that face... this is why i remain in the darkside, feeding the demons you supposedly killed
these demons were fed with lead, resurrected and led by madness.
Rage!
or a caveman savage!
Or..
i could call her over and offer her some tea and muffins, from a musket.
Hemp rope and hang (with) her, bound by invincible chords to the Lord but what more could i ask for but harmonious love from broken keys.
Broken keys for broken hearts, broken hearts deserve shotguns to pump bullets into the minds of those who sugarcoat the truth.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
When I come home at night
I lock my doors
and draw my shades
like an allegory of something
long forgotten that itches
six inches deep
I turn my old radio on
and a song is sung
like a toothache
from sometime in the past
I set another place at the table
don't ask me why
for the same reason there are
no longer any shotguns
or guitars in my house
but there is lotion for my hands
each blister another
bloodshot moon
my yawn a blessing in disguise
I search the bookshelves
I built from lumber
from the tumbled down barn
I read books the dead light
their stoves with
and some that howl
like a pine on a ridge
and all these maps
these photographs
I wasted nails on
when they hung on the wall
but I'm tired of mending
all the small holes
so I leave them there
open and empty
to remind me where
the heart goes.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
There is a place where the birds go
When the air grows heavy
And it is not South
It is here that I will find you
When the dust has settled
You say you want to sing my bones electric
You want to whistle from the rafters of rainclouds
Become the weight of the rain
The kind that only comes
After the locusts have gone
And we are all waiting for something new
To keep us inside
This century was the moment
In your late-night lunch break
When you got so close to the end of your cigarette
That you wish you’d left the filter on
We are one race with seven billion shotguns signaling GO
Still we spin
Like tornadoes in plastic bottles
Cursing hands and the landfills we all fall into
Eventually
We might stumble into sanity
And mistake it for a honeybee sting
Resurrection
Is breaking past the parasitic anchors
In your skin
Propaganda over-fishing
Sinking 5th dimension realities
Into yesterday’s tomorrow
I will dig you out of this town until my fingernails are black from trying to touch every color at once
Hold me steady like September
The birds do not need compasses
But I do
You asked to leave the lights on
That night on the forest floor
The canopy rising and falling in the rhythmic breath of night
Tracing a circuit on the inside of my spine
The curve that proves that
We do not belong in boxes
With straight edges
Learning to breathe does not become easier the second time around
Catch my breath in a butterfly net
Send it back priority
In some other city
You spend the night with my footsteps
I spend the night folding swans out of your conscience
Jimeny-cricket style
There is a place where the birds go
When the air grows heavy
And it is not South
It is here that I will find you
When restlessness tempts you to fade
See you in my sleep
See you breathlessly awake
And shaking at the pearly gates
Because excuses were the birds
That flew from your chest
when you put regret to rest
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
When you walk like you have 12 gage shotguns for lungs,
Your very breath is a weapon.
When you walk like you have pistols for hands,
Your very touch is deadly.
We did not ask for such a violent biology.
But we were born in the tide of oppression and forged in discrimination.
We did not ask for this.
This skin is a painting we do not get to wash away.
This story does not end when we wake up.
We live with the audacity to think we belong, knowing.
This was never out fate
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
My guru skinnydips in multi-colored waterbeds.
Listen!
A pop festival blows bubbles in free flashbacks.
Dig it, brother!
John Lennon overdoses on the agony of paisley bellbottoms.
Will the Grateful Dead give shotguns with laid back madness?
Eric Clapton quivers in Janis Joplin's windowpane.
Oh, how Timothy Leary plays lead with strung out drug busts!
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
The White Race
&
The Black Base
In-fighting Nut-Case
Wearing kits & killing kins
Tracer bullets leave no trace!
Ak's & Ra's
Customized & hand made
Just Like Burger-king
Have it your way!
And this war is brought to you by
Your's Truly,
The infamous
NRA!
Cops shooting innocent by-standers on the block,
Innocent by-standers then copping Bump-stocks,
Dropping scores to make it count,
Odd murders 2 even out!
Sniper's posted atop rooftops,
Legislations to make him stop.
A "Mentally Challenged" Caucasian man who had gone AWOL?
Suddenly reappears like an Automatic *****
Posted @ the Hotel
Planning to **** wholesale
To get the maximum reward
Also to get closer to God,
Bodies 4 trophies
& Their Head's as his awards!
In the midst of all this
Another white supremacist
With absolutely no
Motor-skills
To run us over
& Cause massive kills
At Town Halls
Movie theaters and even at the Shopping mall
A Muslim nut-job
Planning ********
A darker American
A lighter Puerto Rican,
Or even a white broad,
Always someone@ur service
To start a brawl,
To ***** some skin
& Make it crawl,
To raise u up
Then Watch you fall.
Wild fires burning bodies bare
Of All colors,
From well done to medium rare,
White House to Gitmo
Water boarding & a bit more,
Laid back extreme sports!
**** 4 tats here,
Cliques & Gangs here
Bricks in the bag here
Clipped to the back rear,
**** yes No *** hair,
Shotguns no cab fare,
Tariffs on imports
Nuns & Nymphos
Hoes before bro's
Turning friend's into foes.
Deserted mill workers,
Over dosing on pill sherbets
Gettin' high 2 get by
Laugh hard then start to cry,
Suicides to feel Alive,
Straight up living
Just to curl up & die,
What a way to go
Get buried to touch the sKy!
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
all these people and their
"it's easy to sleep, ***
I'm up at six
with four things of Capri suns.
people sleeping and their
"My dreams are so fun!!"
I'm never sleeping,
I'm thinking of shotguns.
waking up pretty and their
"put your hair up in a bun!"
I'm busy trying to make my own source of income.
petty people with their
*** jiggle" (yeah, that's ***
I'm thinking Russian roulette would be my fun
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 4:30 AM UTC
A Grande Iced coffee sweetened with whole milk always
supplied Trey, the Zombie, with energy. On a bright yellow morning
Trey sat down on a canvass deck chair outside of Starbucks.
He puffed on his e-cigarette. Then he took a sip from his plastic cup.
And as he tasted the refreshing creamy coffee, he remembered
what it was like to be a human being. Before the infection decimated
the world’s population of men, women, and children, everybody
was killing each other with double barreled shotguns, sleeping
with their best friend’s girlfriend to prove that they were not
in love with their best friend, forcing girls and women of all
ages into cramped basements leaving them with a bowl of
white rice and a cup of water, telling them that they had to sleep
with strange men who lived in America and other countries polluted
with lust and desire, or else they would get sent to the bottom
of a swamp where the Alligators roamed the muddy shores in
search of flesh. Trey remembered that he had been a college student
living at home, working as a tennis instructor part time at the
rec center down the street from where he resided at.
This little girl Amy bit him on the ankle. It was the first time
he had taught her how to hit a topspin serve with such
velocity that the tennis ball would bounce off the service box
and rise over the chain-linked fence, where the zombies were, crawling
over and up onto the hard courts. As Trey drank his iced coffee
he realized that life was more pleasant now. People didn’t shoot each
other anymore. Closeted gays and lesbians didn’t sleep with their best friend’s boyfriends and girlfriends just to prove that they were heterosexuals. And wicked men with shaggy hair and yellow teeth didn’t buy young girls and women from cramped basements and **** them because they had the money and the motivation to follow their lustful desires. No. None of this happened anymore. Now that the Zombies had taken over. Everybody just went to Starbucks, and drank iced coffees sweetened with milk.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
They swarm in
Their thousands,
Moving as one,
Erratic it seems,
Rolling and undulating,
Rippling like a
wave on the sea,
Traversing the Valley
And Hillsides,
Seeking plunder,
In their numbers.
A well rehearsed
Sky dance perhaps.
A demonstration of
superior, formidable
and menacing forces.
Soon the air cannons
Will boom
And echo.
Hired men will walk
Among the vines,
Banging on metal pans,
Firing shotguns.
The swarms you see,
Wants the fruit.
Starlings care nothing,
for aged fermented,
Fine Pinot Noir,
By the glass,
Or bottle.
The grapes their prize.
Nor are they concerned
with the efforts of man,
Or his air cannons.
What is noise to them,
When fat sweet grapes
Are in plain view?
The war of the Vineyards',
A yearly event.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
This village of two hundred and fifty six people probably won’t ever be ready for you.
Your secret will haunt the community for as long as it takes them to pretend you don’t exist
At first people may scream and cry
Fathers will load their shotguns and little old ladies will lock their doors
Afraid that you are bold enough to profess your love for another man
But behind the bolted windows and petrified stares
Know that you are not alone
Supporters will come from the most unknown places
Someday we can hope this place will change
But that doesn’t mean you have to wait to be honest with yourself
This place will always be filled with gossip
Where news is spread between hair dryers at the local salon
And political conservatism is ten times bigger then the grocery store
In this small corner of the world, where kind words and friendly greetings are waiting on every street corner you will meet the disgusting face of hatred
But when hatred dies, love will come up from it’s ashes
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
If y'all were to go to Heaven
Y'all would be sent down to The South
In a little town called Texas
Where the tea is sweeter
Where chivalry still exists
Where we all drive muddy pickups
And dance in the rain in our cowboy boots
Where we all say howdy
And say ain't like it's not meant for over yonder
There isn't a single stranger in Texas
We all know each other
We are a tight knit town always waiting to give a lending hand
If we were to secede
The other states would miss us
There would be a big gaping hole on the map
The heart and the fist of The United States of America
We are Texans
You mess with one
You get the whole can of whoopass
We could be your worst nightmare
Or your best dream
Just don't talk smack from where I'm from
We will get on you with our whips and shotguns
We are Texans
We don't settle
And we don't keep calm
We are God- Fearin', Constituional- lovin', Gun- Bearin' Republicans.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
You send me a song every Wednesday,
a soul offering; a slice of the strange radioactive
lunatic madness -
love-
growing inside your wonderland.
(It is not a cancerous tumour, please stop calling it that.)
You say it is dark, the Arctic's lover;
I say it is dark, like
velvet punk music and
stained checked shirts and
almost-blood wine (in shared glasses); like
the colour of your skin.
Come on.
We've both been more fascinated by the depths of the ocean
than the blue glass surfaces.
Isn't that why we fell into bottomless black holes and called it
love?
Isn't that why we branded ourselves poets,
seared the red hot poker labels onto our backs,
so that we wouldn't have to say we're just
sad...?
Yes, we are carefully disintegrating;
the world already gave us a head-start
by curling our spines into the snakelike 'S'
It was preparing us
for our careful meandering
into a river mess:
living.
No doubt, in the pool depths of African evenings,
you drink,
vodka-tinged cereal or tea,
the glass Roobios surface reflecting
a lover's face and the boredom of sadness.
No doubt, I drink to you,
coffee or warm milk,
to try and wake myself into
dying without a purpose.
No doubt, we both drink
the night itself.
And let it fester in our veins,
to curdle our blood into that same wine-shade of
darkness.
We drink.
Virginia Woolf had courage,
Sylvia Plath had courage,
Ernest Hemingway had courage,
you and I don't.
We are too fearless to live.
So we drink
and clutch at each other desperately
without reaching out a single finger.
We form shotguns with our hands, make pacts, go
home again.
And drink.
We are helping each other to die
and live
at the same time.
We are helping each other to try fit the day
too
into our arteries.
You send me a song every Wednesday;
this song will save our existence.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Emma and Jack
1 A.M.
Emma: “Hey you asleep…?”
Jack: “…if I say yes… what happens?”
E: “Look, I think we should get a divorce.”
J: “From each other or from reality altogether?”
“Funny. Do you dream anymore?”
“Never. Last time was when Paddy died.”
“Your high school friend. The one who got shot by the cops?”
“Yeah. The night I found out I had a dream that went on for hours.”
“About him?”
“No, yeah, it was all about life after death, there were angels, big rooms, lots of light.”
“What happened again?”
“He robbed a bank. Paddy and a guy named Chris Ranier. They held up a bank, like with shotguns”
“Why? Why would a 17 year old middle class kid rob a bank?”
“His parents were down, not starving, so I don’t know.”
“Where did he die again?”
“At a bus stop. They were waiting for a bus. If the bus had been on time, the cops would never have found them. At least that’s what the cops said.”
“And the Chris kid lived?”
“Yup, took a bullet through the heart but he lived.”
“So our divorce.”
“Why do you want to get divorced again?”
“Research. I want to know how people react.”
“ To what?”
“To you and me. What happens when you tell someone you are divorced?”
“In my case women start to salivate.”
“Women don’t salivate. They plan.”
“They scheme you mean. I thought writers made stuff up.”
“Wrong. Writers discover, we ‘re explorers.”
“You know I’ve got an early morning…”
“Scheme is sexist by the way, just sayin’”
“So is salivate, sleep tight”
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
The sun is out,
The sky is blue.
There's kids at the park,
There's people in the dark.
I sit down and I spark, I spark and I spark.
The cigarette in my hand,
The blade filled with black in the other.
Standing with his brothers;
He walks with his bald bowling ball shaped head;
shoulders back,
Chest prideful,
Head up high,
Someone gonna die.
Hundreds and hundreds,
Killed and tortured
Shotguns to the face,
Knife wounds to the body,
Machete to the neck,
Headless.
DECAPITATED,
His thoughts are reckless;
see them growing as his hair begins to grow;
One year later,
It's night time,
The sky is black,
The children are asleep,
The adults are drinking tea.
Me?
I'm telling you a story,
Of a kid who was left alone in the dark.
Monsters under his bed,
No weapons but a flashlight to keep them away,
Monsters in the closet,
Monsters in the mirrors,
Monsters from a cave,
Monsters in his head.
Monsters are DEAD.
Flashlight on the floor,
Silence, then a creaking sound at the door.
A man walks in,
This man is his dad,
"Son, you forgot your Teddy bear."
the kid was happy,
The kid was fast asleep.
Little Does he know,
These Monsters are real,
These Monsters are everywhere he goes.
These Monsters are outside,
Going around attacking the innocent.
These Monsters belong in a cage,
So the bald Brother grabs his blade,
Puts the monster in it's cage;
he feeds the monster everyday,
He makes it stronger,
He waits and he waits.
For the monster to be strong enough to break free,
And when it is,
He'll keep it's head,
For everyone to see.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
maybe we’re tired of tragedy maybe the world said: welcome home, it’ll be a beautiful ride. maybe the world lied, maybe the lifelines on your palms are no more than some ancient tragedy dragging its teeth on your skin like an animal that refuses to die
no matter how many times you shoot it.
maybe i’m applying lipstick in the front seat of my car and the leather smells like my friend rushing out to throw up. we are all rushing out to throw up because we live in a time of cataclysm, every day might be a new catastrophe.
nuclear apocalypse is the new black
and we are already putting shotguns in the trunks of our cars.
you blow a breath of smoke and i want to know why everyone tells me that cigarettes are bad for my health when the sky over my hometown is no longer the blue my grandmother remembers, and why you think that i am destroying myself when the world is being destroyed and you just throw the leaflets away. we are not trying to **** ourselves here, we were just born exhausted, and i don’t see people in the streets, i see moving muscles and bones. we all want enough breathing room but our lungs would break apart if we got oxygen.
there are people who have never even seen the stars and now you tell me that elon musk wants to launch us into space. to do what?
to destroy, which is the ancient tragedy, which is the only thing we know how to do right. i weep for the stars and for the galaxies and for some passengers two centuries into the future, the child with curly hair pressing her nose to the shuttle window as Earth burns burns burns,
the only legacy we ever left.
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
I'm a redneck
Anyone can see that
I don't have street smarts
I have dirt road smarts
Shotguns and beer
Jacked up trucks and mud
Cain pole and and a pond
My baby and me
That's my idea of heaven
I don't want easy
Easy is to boring
Give me duck tape and nails
I can fix anything
I've done stupid things
I've smoked ****
Drank to much
Broke hearts
****** random girls
I regret it
I fought anybody
For no reason
I've stolen cars
But I'm done
I can't change it
Even if I could
The only thing I would do
Is tell them all I'm sorry
But it made me who I am
Even though
I don't like who I am
I'm proud of it
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Evil takes its sanguine bite
Out of the ****** dark,
And the soulless stumble
Beneath Earth’s apocalypse
Trying to outrun the smoke of shotguns;
The hunger of dead dreams-
Down here, we can curse with a single kiss.
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 8:40 AM UTC
Dear God,
I don't know if you know this but we're counting on you. I don't believe in you, none of your healing touch is true. There are no pearly gates, no wise men, no father, son, and no holy ghost. There's just pedophile's trophy little girl swaddled swamp bottoms and dumb men, just a ****** a suicidal-wanderer-mothers-help-squanderer, and teething-on-baby's-flesh demon.
God, you haven't cured me, or my boyfriend, he's still bleeding on the occasion, and not over candle lit dinners either. God, can't you see we're seething? God are you even listening? God are your ears sewn shut? Did some shotgun blow them off? That reminds me, God, that's your job. Please take away the shotguns. I don't want them anywhere near anyone, especially certain someone's. I'm talking about cops and angry fathers and kids taking steps towards the edge. Our freeways are ***** enough God.
God, you've let me down. I'm screaming everything unholy your way God. You're pathetic. Where is the miracle I've been asking for? I'm not praying God, I'm on my knees and begging, like you told me to. Where's the saving? Where's the grace and goodness? All I'm seeing is terror God, all I'm seeing is your face, laughing and crying at the same time.
You're a disgrace.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
Did you hear? Did you hear?
He led a life that was Christ-less
then got his life in a crisis
and now he lays on the ground lifeless.
and did you hear?
the blasts from sedans shotguns
the bullets flew and this man caught one
through and through he could not stop one.
Did you hear? Did you hear?
He was into the gangs as a youth
Heard gangsters spit in the booth
dreamed of a grill for his tooth.
And did you hear?
He never got where he was going
A train wreck in full view, never slowing.
I even heard that he got his first piece to protect his niece from the dangers of the streets.
And did about you hear?
That niece cooked up rocks
after those gunshots
Shook like stun gun shocks
Burning like no sun block.
Did you hear, did you hear?
These streets are poorly paved
Cars make potholes and the streets they dig graves.
These men got know god, so god knows he can't save
The streets leave the people desperate and depraved.
And did you know, did you know?
Everyone is aware.
But nothing ever gets done.
Because nobody cares.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
It makes me sad how angry I am
it's so bad I'm god ******
the slaughter of God's lamb
by the knife in God's hand
hatred's supply and demand
is all I understand
when sexuality creates insanity
in this putrid life handed to me
with God not answering
my prayers for Him to take my eyes
instead He just took my hands
so now I can't stop staring at guys
who don't think I'm a man
and I can't fight back with no arms
so I must stand there and take harm
from people in God's garb
and wire that is barbed.
If being without love makes one numb
how come I feel every time I'm stung?
Especially now that swords are guns
and this life's rewards are none
just a scoreless run
to a finish line before a cliff
I pray there is something to lift
me away from my earthen crypt
but I've found only rage
and in that my sorrow
banging in my cage
but wanting to see tomorrow
looking for anything to follow
I can't take pills hard to swallow
so I float like the thirteenth Apollo.
Wallowing in an empty room
pouring alcohol in the wound
feeling doomed like I'll die soon
in my lonely loft
developing a covid cough
from those who scorn and scoff
and won't **** off
telling me to look to God
when that's how my arms were sawed
into illegal shotguns
living this life is not fun
so everyone around me got shot some
which is just part of God's **** poor potluck
my hands must be in there somewhere
so I just keep crawling upstairs
even though it's unfair
my hands must be stolen back
from a god dressed in black
who took my palms but let me see
without knowing how to be
I just bite the hands that bleed
until I'm too full to breathe
and watch God laughing casually.
Aug 8, 2022
Aug 8, 2022 at 8:49 PM UTC