These
words will not save me.
Not
now. Not ever.
And
there are no buts about it because even and especially when we find refuge in
the shadows another shoe is always waiting to drop like a lead balloon or loaf
of stale bread.
These
oil fumes will only dampen our mood until we’re silenced by the brilliance of
another worthless suicide by our own hand or the hand of a close friend or
relative.
When
I couldn’t pleasure her she took matters into her own hands. She made sounds I’ll
never forgive nor forget as her firm bicycle ass showed me up while driving
Dixie down.
It’s
the work that matters and only the work. As Internment Camps again become a
part of the conversation because we’ll never learn no matter how many times the
clock strikes twelve.
I’m
sickened by the lack of empathy going on in this supposedly great country of
ours.
How
is it no one’s catching on that we’ve more than disappeared down a sinkhole as
the writing on the wall calls for a timeout and all the players on the field
want is more carnage?
We’ve
reached an all-time low as the land of the free and the home of the brave becomes
the land of the enslaved and home of the cowardly. We’re better than this and
need to sooner than later get it through our thick skulls the time for revolt is
now before a slippery slope places us all behind barbed wire.
These
words. These fucking words are like wet matches we’ll never light as we fumble
around in the unscrupulous dark.
If
you’re wondering why last call was never called it’s because all the alcohol
has already been drunk.
We
need to stop tossing around words like patriotism and homeland and ask
ourselves why we’re so quick to throw our fellow brothers and sisters under the
bus.
Charles Cicirella
2/19/17Charles Cicirella
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