Sen(non)se

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Same sad song

Same plain chorus

Of heart break

Self pity pop song

The I so malieable

It seems we all play off of

Cliché, clichette, shit in the red

Solo cup

Cheers, beer, insincere

And the million excuses

That make it her fault

Responsibility is drained

Like crushed cigarette bud

from stale lager

The barbed downward spiral

The words make a cell

my dull quill scratched away,

“escape”

in the aged cheddar walls.

 

Words Can Play

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Where is the meaning

Words can play

And pause

Rhyme and cross

But I mourn the loss

Of the passion

All of the rebel yell

The strained scream

But none of the heart

The words are dulled

Without the point

Illness in Prose

The words dance behind bloodshot eyes like the tip of a flame around the jet fueled cylinder. Swatting at phrases and stories liable for redemption, hoping that this catch will finally get you on the map. That they’ll all be wrong about you and your “success,” as make believe as a small girls dreams of a unicorn, or a middle age man’s plea with fate in playing the lottery.
All I see are pictures. Pictures of my boy hung upside down. Eyes swollen shut. Suspended in the air by over-sized fishhooks traced through his inner organs and workings, wound together like mother’s knitting.
How dark can it get? How far can I travel into the recesses of my brain to find the images that disturb and outrage? How can I be so desensitized to the thought of my own father mutilated and maimed by the hands of terrorism? Or shrapnel tearing through Vietnamese children like a chainsaw cutting through paper?