Where the agency of the world desires,
At times it would seem personal.
It'd look like some hard son of a cunt,
Tall as hell, mad as a rabbi hound.
Walking in looking for the lone target.
Funky boots on creaking floor,
Bottle in rustled palm.
Bottle on your bleeding forehead,
Glass on your abdomen,
Belt around fist,
Fist on your chipped lips,
Boot up,
Boot down on your calf.
Blood ran dry before the spilled booze.
You'd look him in the eyes
Under your swollen lids.
You see
hatred
You see
mirthless glee
You see
shrill in the look reflected.
You see the vacant surrounds you
After his long gone.
You see none, bating glances.
Hate is easy.
Hate is exquisite,
Hate is as straight as the arrow you shot.
Hate carries through,
Makes you bold, makes you unforgiving,
Condescending in default.
Hate chips you.
Barded spears
In and pulled and pulled...
The more you pull the more it gnaws.
Until you became some
Bleeding work of art.
Truth is
He didn't know you.
As you don't know a coin toss of the world.
Tomorrow would be another on the pike.
And there will be another bar,
Flock of patrons,
There will be drinks,
After it's done.
After he's done.
I'll be up like
the last tree of the forest.
I'll be yelling at the top of my lungs like
A braver man does.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoetryI wanted to resonate some undefined emotions that ain't as tacky as a word. A small collection of poems I wrote when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
