TheUnlikelyPoet

It's a small world after all; My doctor the abortionist, my wife the county call.

You are what I love the most about the world in which I live. You also are the reason why I find it hard to give two shits.

Swill on its Brow. Fluid motions, 'Round its Catatonic seams. Blunt objects, Bludgeoning. Soul pirates, Plundering. Tectonic Rumblings in the Hearts of broken Soldiers, Wishing that Tales spun could be downed with ease as Water.

Slaves to the soul, we are. All, are we, destined, for bare bones, and broken homes.

I will sleep with fishes, and dine with kings, while terrible angels deep inside me sing; I long to inhale that sweetest of smells, but alas, how unfortunate I am, that I, will never again see the whites of her eyes.

I wish I were a Hollywood starlet. With all the allure of a harlot. With legs like miles, eyes like isles, and morals that know nothing of shame.

Eyes.  Wide.  Wide open.  Unblinking.  The line is long to see me.  Like a circus show.  I am the main attraction.  Come little monkeys, Come and see. Gee, I wonder what the main event, Has gone and left to me? It's almost sickening, The game, Of tug-o-war with golden rings.  With trinkets, baubles, shiny things.  I am so very tired, Please, Just let me have my rest.  The show is over, Leave me now And promise to be on your best.  Those cuff links aren't yours.  Put them back. 

I am 38 years old.  I haven't been shooting in God knows how long, And I miss it.  The thrill of the hunt.  The intense satisfaction Of unloading my clip  Into a semi-willing target.  Now that clip is filled with hollow points.  Only the occasional full metal jacket gets through.  Nobody is impressed with impotent bullets.  No child will let me teach them that art. I am 38 years old, And I am so very lonely. 

Blink.  Blink.  Soft light.  Faces.   Faces I will love.  Faces I will defy.  Faces that will,  Long before I will, Die.  Mother.  Father.  Tyrant.  Scum.  Brother.  Sister.  Druggie.  Bum.  One look is all it takes To know I'm destined For mistakes.  One look at this awful lot, And I can't help but weep.  But tempting as it is to run, They are mine, I am their son. 

Roar Goes he. And whimper, Goes she. His hard calloused hands Know nothing of mercy. It's quite alright, though, For dinner was late, And she understands why he does it.