You wanna sit there bathed in such audacity,

you wanna slap my face and kick out my teeth,

you wear some shitty robe and sit in judgement of me,

you carry a badge and a gun but you’re still a bully,

you stare down your nose like you hold some superiority,

you live on the side of the tracks opposite from me,

you wanna come up on me any way you can conceive,

you wanna tell lies and spread rumors around viciously,

you need to feel good about yourself to fall asleep,

you’ll sell-out someone else if it gets you what you need,

you walk around like you think your dirty shit can’t stink,

you weigh 80 pounds with a mouth twice as big as me,

you believe in things that seem to lead to being human sheep,

you flock together with blinders on, unwilling to truly think,

you don’t know the meaning of getting back up on your feet,

you don’t know the feeling of swallowing another defeat,

you wanna sit there smiling stupidly,

you wanna laugh at my misery,

you wanna push me until red’s all I see,

you wanna make a statistic of me.


Tar and Feather Suit.

These days the praise is so long-gone:

the desire once harbored for you to belong,

you’ve gone ahead and just moved right on,

into my nest with your reach – over-long…

I can’t help but to see through the “friendly”:

the poorly fabricated façade is now crumbly,

ignored chances to walk away from it humbly,

and now, the blood in veins courses numbly…

no differences to work out between:

two people from long opposing teams,

while one keeps the other second-guessing,

behind intentions growing into forces unseen…

the equation you’ve laid out is rather easy to deduce:

you think that you’re exempt from any need for gratitude,

an explosion of the magma from my own home-made brew,

that’s seething at the threshold of my door opened up to you…

if you had any sense, you’d be driving fast and far:

as my eyes have tired of looking at your parked car,

and I feel like I know nothing of who you truly are,

beneath your suit of feathers glued onto hardened tar.

Dig In.

When I have to be,

one of the community,

it exhausts me,

uphill hiking,



not even vaguely,

a foreign dialect,

to my hearing;

I just want to scream,

“can we end this meeting?”

so that I can fly solo,

and avoid the battering;

I’m just,

no damned good,

at this group therapy,

sharing of my feelings…

no disrespect,

but I’m gluttonous,

for the punishment,

of these comfortable,

and familiar things.