Dedicated to A.
He was the last of the outlaws.
People called him Billy Whiskey
Known to be smooth with the inlaws,
But fire when he got a little angry.
One day he was riding his horse,
When he saw a poor man outside town.
Billy knew he should feel some remorse,
Billy pulled out his six and shot the man down.
Who hurt you when you were younger?
We know your pain is real.
It eats at you like true hunger.
You neglect your words and use your steel.
Read Part 2
They say God is dead.
And we killed Him.
As if we could kill God.
Yet, we bow our heads with a slight nod.
I walk to the front of the chapel,
To pay my respects seems, natural.
Forced to look upon the face,
And forced to offer my disgrace,
When I notice this is not the face
That I was expecting in this boxed place.
It is academia who lies in the coffin.
For students sit silently in rows too often,
While information is spewed onto boards,
We string her up like strange fruit with cords.
Laptops are guillotines for creativity.
They steal ideas like the sharp blade,
That falls at the will of gravity.
As we sit and “take notes,” we fade.
Academia wishes she had died fast.
I know this, because I heard what she said last.
As I looked at her face, she spoke to me.
“Bury me alive, so I don’t have to see.”
Perhaps she would have preferred a cross,
A death more tedious than the growth of moss.
At least everyone would have noticed her as she died,
and there would be no excuse not to fix your eye.
Academia is dead.
We have killed her.
My human vices.
These small, strong devices.
Greed. Envy. Lust.
These are the American must.
I will not do what you do.
I will, turn to virtue.
I choose to trust my brother.
I choose to love my lover.
I choose to forgive my father.
I choose to care for my mother.
I choose to live for another.
Will you do the same?
I have holes in my shoes.
I don’t know how they got there.
The fabric that once protected
my toes now leaves them bare.
As a child we’re surrounded by walls.
But the tall wall once for security will fall.
Our emotions left defenseless.
Our minds forced to pretend less.
The frost is settling on the reluctant grass.
I try to speak, but there appears to be a mass.
It’s lodged in my throat.
The pressure from my heart builds.
My left lung with air, fills.
My right lung deflates despairingly down,
Giving its breath to the other, that it
Might force the words now bound.
Just as I am about to speak,
A speck of snow falls in a streak.
I’ve missed my chance to say it all.
The bitter, white snow begins to fall.
The land has frozen over.
My chance to speak is over.
So I will keep silent.
I’ll cover my ears, and hide, between
my hands.
My mind is unraveling,
As my fear is traveling.
It hikes from my toes to head.
All while I lay stagnant,
Losing hope in my bed.
I wish I had motivation,
But instead, I have desperation.
I am so desperate to be happy.
I am so desperate to feel loved.
I am so desperate to be needed.
Yet there is no relief,
so I will drown in my grief.
Not in substance,
But in silence.
Primitive Poetry 