Writing these poems in the light of the darkness and I know nobody cares and I’ve gotten used to that and so much more.
It’s like you’re a leper and as your fingers and toes fall off and people see that your body is becoming disassembled they just look on because it’s not happening to them so why should they care?
And the advent of social media hasn’t made anything any better because though we may be more directly connected how many selfies or pictures of your big toe or your cat playing the piano do we really need to see before Rome again burns and the Coliseum again goes dark?
The light of the darkness has become my only trusted ally as I read yet another post from her about this or that dictator and if you disagree with her she’ll put you down like a nonsensical dog because the tyranny of her own words has become quite intoxicating.
From the first poem I wrote when I was fourteen years old I knew something was happening and it wasn’t to be taken for granted because cliché or not the pen is most definitely mightier than the sword and with great power comes an even greater responsibility.
The words pour from me like blood from a wound that will never stop bleeding no matter how much pressure is applied. I was a dying man from the second I sat down in front of my sister’s typewriter and for the first time felt comfortable in my own timeline.
Resistance is futile because we’re all going to head into the light sooner than later.
And the light of the darkness never bears false witness because what fun is there in that especially when your twelve best mates know Jesus personally.
Writing these poems under the covers with the help of a flashlight as the words like trail mix accompany me into the wilderness.
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