Midnight Poet Strikes Again - Inflamed

Midnight Poet Strikes Again - Inflamed

leave me alone.jpg

Taking it for years.

Inflamed. And blamed

for our own tears.

 

Is our proclivity

Toward sensitivity

A pain to avoid,

Or make you annoyed?

 

This trauma has cut up the asphalt

And put a halt

To the train

That kept the pain

On the other side of the track.

 

And you’ve got our back.

You say,

 

You think and you pray:

 

“I’m hearing your plight,

But my banner in sight,

Which was north of the border,

Returned our good order.

That spell has been broken

No words that I’ve spoken

Spew hate (as of late)

 

Isn’t that stuff

Enough?”

 

“And I never touched, or stroked, or knew.

Why march with the Mses. now whining ‘Me, too.’?

Should I always believe,

Or is she trying to deceive

with the story she’ll strongly implore?

 

Is she really asking for

More?!”

 

“And the rainbow was precious,

You stole for your flag.

Why should I honor the ‘choice’ of the fag?!

I’m just not convinced.

That argument’s minced.

 

And I’m not sure that I care,

Or have pity to spare.”

 

“And

 

“In a time where everyone else’s opinion counts -

But mine doesn’t measure half an ounce -

Let me announce

I’m ignoring the drone.

Leave me alone!

Nothing need enter my home of stone.

 

It’s too much to take,

If this is what it means

To be awake.

 

When hurt is kept quiet,

Then life is much cleaner.

It lessens the diet

Of painful demeanor.”

 

But if you’ve now faced

(without being debased)

What it means to taste

This crap and spew and hate and crud,

 

Please know that it’s one 86th of one bud.

 

But you’ve got pain too.

 

So this gets reversed.

 

Attempts to acknowledge the pain that came first.

 

With cursed opinions about to collide,

Let’s consider what’s truly denied:

 

The things that we don’t know, the hurt of the other,

The personal aches we wish we could smother,

Are in all of us.

Thus,

Comparing the pain, such a grave sin,

Futilely blocking the tales deep within.

 

There’s more to the story

Than the glory

of yellowed News

Which spews

A sepia picture,

With bichrome tincture,

And has the power

Every half hour

To lift the bridge and dig the moat,

Perhaps abridge and then connote

A meaning that pulls us apart

And ruins matters of the heart.

 

What if we could just emote

And promise that we would devote

Some effort to Let go control

And open wide to see the soul?

 

Affective, Directive, and mostly, Connective,

We’d tune into a cherished perspective.

 

What would we be?

 

What could we say?

 

 

if you're thinking it’s love,

 

Please try it today.

 

A little could go a very long way.

Midnight Poet Strikes Again - The 13th Egg

Midnight Poet Strikes Again - The 13th Egg