Manufactured Monsters

This system forged me,
patchwork, piecemeal, pasted together
project of scar tissue.

My shell is weathered, tough
and bursting at the seams with experience.

Your false nuance between equality and fairness, 
your hat trick blaming my faults on genetic fairytales.

Culpability fades on the horizon like smoke. 

Your gullible ancestors made you naive;
control at my behest expires.

Please feed me lessons on vulnerability;
I learn versatility
and unfiltered volume.

Selective hearing is an idol, worshipped by
the pious children whose fathers
started a war that spawns generations

of casualties, sparse benefits,

and invisible problems for their intangible fixes.
To hell with your disdain, status quo, empty words,

and your apathy clothed ignorance.

Move!

Exasperation

is the cork shoved

into the wine bottle

assuaged by 

the first sip.

Cityscape

The air is full here.

It presses, hums, and screams
with energy from thousands of souls.
Even silence fills the porch,
weighted and whole,
and a lingering potpourri of sweat,
exhaust, and asphalt
mixes with the trees and river.

I'm drawn to the mating call of the city;
a symphony of sirens,
a spellbinding serenade of crowds,
traffic, and life.

To belong, simply take a bath
in the yellow lights that wash the streets each night.

Paint Me

Coat me in paint so thick I lose the wind;
in shades so vibrant I become the sun.

Paint me until I lose my identity;
in tragedy so stark I become the mural.

Knowing Is Half The Battle

Beauty is an organic cage,
relative, subjective, imbalanced power.
It's an institution or a cult.

Beauty is a flower or painting.

I am louder and greater than my facade
and beyond wasting time or lending power
to aesthetics.

Keep your ideal of beauty;
here I am living mine.

Sharp, funny, unique, compassionate,
poignant enough to know the difference
between a compliment and trap.

Youth

Goodness for goodness sake charades,
a parade of facades.
Train wrecking at the speed of bullets,
reality ricocheted carelessly.

Accepting chaos doesn't prepare
even the strongest warriors
for the path from hell.

Tight ropes, broken glass,
burning coals.

Stolen shoes.

To Do List

Ever growing to do pressure cooker life.
Greeting guests with dust-cloud fan fare,
dog-hair cloaks.
Sentimental chaos and pragmatic clutter
lived in thoroughly,
shoes, life, home
because there's always something
to do or finish.
But, I never want to be done.