poEdicJustice

A true king likes to play on round tables And his knights like to dance when they’re able. He rides a horse made of coconuts, But only ones carried by swallows. He is accosted by black knights. Who cares if he has no arms, It’s but a flesh wound. True kings are faithfully served by Patsy. Then use grenades to kill rabbits with sharp pointy teeth. A true king isn’t voted on. He’s king because a watery tart threw him a sword. He can kill whoever he damn well pleases. But real kings don’t get arrested for it.

There you are again my silent stalker. I’m tired of you and your constant dancing in my wake. When I stand still, you freeze. Oh how it must kill you to not move. I can almost hear the scratchy vocals of your silent screams. It’s enough to bring a smile to my lips. I can only stand still for so long though. Then there you go again, dancing your way through life. You momentary mimicry monster. How dare you look at me with your gloomy gaze. I look forward to the setting of the sun. Then I’ll be free of your constant teasing. But you’ll be back again tomorrow.

Love is the Northern Lights. And you wait your whole life to see it. If you are ever so lucky, Embrace it. Lust is a bowl of Rocky Road. It tastes wonderful, But consume too much And the pain is unbearable. Apathy is bitter like black coffee. But you drink it down, for it’s promise of vigor. Only you have nothing to look forward to. So you sit hyper-actively dreaming of better days. Despair is the promise of rain to come. Its clouds can consume the world. Then they break open and bleed their sorrow on us all. And if the rains don’t come, you’re left with a broken promise.

The problem with the mystery is no one knows the answer. You swallow up all their lies and there in-lies your cancer. You open all the doorways to ensure your escape, and peek through closed eyes at the chaos you casually create. You bleed from hearts that were weak from the beginning, and you blend in like taxis in New York City.

My journal is the perfect metaphor for my life. It’s little and brown with a broken spine. Pages held in by a little twine and procrastination I write my story on those pages Tattooed forever on the pale white skin. I keep going till the ink runs out keep going leaving scars

Soldiers don’t stop dying because you turn off your TV. Wars don’t stop waging just because you ignore ‘em. But that’s what you seem to think. We are bleeding out the youth of this nation one bullet at a time. And they die fighting someone else’s battles. So tell me, why should I risk my life for you? What makes your life more important mine? I don’t think you understand the finality of the trigger squeeze. It’s the breaker of promises, the destroyer of dreams. Soldiers aren’t machines, we are still human. You cut our veins and we still bleed. We may die brave, but we can still cry. Our tears s

Present punctuated by the survival of sorrow. Explosive device of the improvised design. Smells like the 4th of July. Such a happy time. Collage of shrapnel painting his body. “We have the money we can rebuild him.” Surgeons with wrenches and oil cans. Casually ripping out organs. Black blood creeping through the cracks of the oil pan. “I'm so sorry. He didn't make it.”

I’m trying to sell the promise of a better tomorrow. But those aren’t exactly handed out for good behavior. They seem to only exist in a world of dreams. And dreams can speak volumes if you’re willing to listen. But my ears have been closed a long time now.