Sunday, February 19, 2017

Eighth Poem (These words will not save me)

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

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