Bad blood. It’s black and runs halfway true.
It flows in rivers, sit and watch the path trace you.
It preys on pure, a push for what it can’t possess-
or had, but now knows that it can’t regress.
It’s bad, it’s best to go bleed it dry,
wet the page in black, ink exorcise.
"Be sure to keep clear." It’s whispered around him,
like somehow the sound would kill if it found him.
Somewhere deep down he’s got a story for his peer group,
a little light left to help the real friends steer through.
He’s not a maze but there’s a curve in his road,
a quick twist to his path and he can’t wait til it’s shown.
He knows he’s no different from the average kid around the way,
but he pretends he is to give his white a little gray.
He covets the color that corners all his victim friends,
he’s too boring on his own and can’t fit within.
He makes a habit out of undermining sadness,
and striking back with lies ten times as tragic.
They all caught on, but they’ll never let him hear.
A liar turned a pariah, “be sure to keep clear.”
The text painted a picture of me. At least, I hoped it would eventually.
I needed to convince you of me - get you to see I could exist conventionally.
I’m not a head game - dead weight’s not what I was meant to be,
but all my energy had me construed to be the enemy.
It’s interesting, incidentally I’m not amused,
since my every letter to you added flame to the fuse,
but when it came to blow you’d run from the truth
hiding deep inside your vice mixing rum with the juice.
…I’ve never used you, these letters were my heart.
I can’t convince you I exist, but I’m glad that I tried to start.
It wasn’t me, truthfully, but it’s rude to say it’s you -
consider this my resignation.
It’s a one boy choir with a chorus so sweet.
The kid’s lips are closed, but the voice is on beat.
He only knows a song, it’s sung stronger every practice-
and all he’s stuck on is how it sounds better backwards.
Pound out a passage, the masses crave a show-tune.
Half the bastards passing won’t even claim to know you.
But sing in that voice we’ll never think to put a finger on.
We’ll pass you the lyrics, just be sure to mind the key you’re on.
Hit the wrong notes, you’ll hurt the folks here to jeer you on-
we need all your fear to turn your soul into a sing-a-long.
Sweet little man, bouncing music in his mental,
no outs or vents to counsel what he’s been through.
He amounts to them and the tune just gets louder,
"No one man should have so little power."
The good time’s are about to roll. Sorry ‘bout the abrupt break, but I’m back.
“A man’s his word.” He spoke first through chapped lips.
I looked backwards, not sure he wanted words with a frat kid.
His eyes were fastened skyward, back to wall,
wanting birds behind the buildings, or sky behind the smog.
Following his gaze, I couldn’t help but sigh the thought:
“The fall of nature; is it man or a God behind it all?”
“I don’t give a shit.” His voice as jarring as his answer,
“Idle thought is waste, kid, put that on a man’s word.”
He looked homeless, you’d guess the type exactly -
hair long, jeans torn, shoes worn, and shirt baggy.
Dirt gladly made canvas of his face,
but the keys around his waist made a hint he had a place.
I relented to his pace, and he spoke with a mission.
Like he’d always had this vision, but needed men to listen.
I reminded him of him, and that’s the reason why he stopped me.
Abercrombie gear with a Starbucks iced coffee,
college educated, slated for a bout in business,
with no inclination on what makes a man efficient.
I said it was grades, work ethic, job loyalty.
He stopped me with a look, and a quick “more importantly…
Jobs are not people, corporations want work,
don’t give allegiance to a thing you can’t see when it give its word.”
The tear stains felt like bullet wounds.
Gravity pulled the drops down with a painful inconsistency;
she was a gun. A revolver, first.
Few tears fell, but she held sorrow in the chamber.
We smelled of gunpowder. One hour, two; count kept til night died.
I lied, she believed, she cried, I had to leave.
She’d handed me her body, skin smooth as gunmetal.
Her heart; stuck in the barrel, since mine would never settle.
She meddled in my affairs, my mettle was less than metal.
I meditated the meaning of the meetings in my bed, though…
Stilettos on women, venom on the tongues,
Sin filling up every minute so penance would never come.
She was a Gatling gun, then.
The force with which the tears fell would shame disasters.
Each bullet carried a different promise I’d made her
and I was drowning; covered in lies I’d long forgotten.
I never knew tears were so bitter.
"Touch me." I didn’t know what she meant,
but I knew what I wanted.
To ruin her. To ruin me.
To hit rock bottom and bounce hard.
To look like bullets set on the heart of God.
I wanted our sex to be cancer, bane of Holy.
I wanted to break her, find another,
and aim again.
I wrote a sentence in blood once.
It was false.
I wrote my name in dirt once.
I was as proud of it as I ever was.
I wrote my heart in ink daily.
I thought it more precious than water.
I wrote her heart in place of mine.
The medium - my body.
I’m writing my heart today.
The blood has run dry. The dirt is where it lies. Its story’s in the ink.
You spoke softly. A tone so weak,
it rivaled my confidence. I drank your words
and watched my heart sweat from your pores.
Clad to the core in my morals; I made you.
Yet, I’m intoxicated by the proof of your words,
Yours. The thoughts you created. The mind you found on your own.
The path you chose by yourself. The one that led you from me.
Watching the last of me pool at your feet… I wonder how much of you keeps me alive.