They Call It You

In a world of gilled creatures swimming in their puddles of shit and piss
We’re beings anchored to their ocean floor
Guests in a broken home
Salvaging the air from the lungs of those less fortunate

Surviving by the mercy of the common man’s air pocket
Their hands clasped over your crackling independent squeaks
Screaming salvation from injury and pain
They’ll crush your unique lens
A rock through your only window

They’ll hold you back
Trudging through their grasp
Each pleasant memory
Breaks away
Like Pigs
Ripping apart slop
With greedy snouts
And desperate demeanors

They’ll poke and prod
You’ll keep swimming

The pieces that break off
Seeds planted
Growing to an unseen consequence

A tree breaks through the surface
Reaching up to the heavens
Praying for change
Our last savior crawling

They admire, you inspire
A panting observed, then ignored
A grey canvas with a drop of color
A beautiful Petri dish
Enduring their critical minds
A dissection

They call it you

The shattered Remains of a visionary
Placed in my palm
I’ll keep swimming
When it’s my time
And I drown
Use my broken hope
And make a raft

As the Blade Grows Dull

An opportunity has opened itself up to me
But I haven’t the power to bewilder with the sounds of consonances and the arsenal of synonyms and similes

I haven’t the alliteration to make malevolence or malice meander or to minimize how much I abhor assholes with affluent bank accounts basking in the dimes and dollars that surely must define their quality of being.

The words lack a certain finesse.
My metaphors are small grains at the bottom of the sand box
Untouched by hands or urine
Unheard and left unattended

My personification cannot bring life to the sad cup of pencils on my desk staring at me, pleading with me for a caress.

I’ve never
Had the
Line breaks
To stay tuned
To the pitter patter
Of rain

On shaking hand and knee in front of sanctimonious espresso stand, begging for one more cup of coffee I don’t understand the addictions the literary greats went through.