Okay, so I accidently got into poetry mode, wrote quite a bit that was good enough to work on and start publishing on my blog. Politics makes us all nasty, rabid dogs towards the candidates and their supports. I hate it the most of all my friends . . . and yet . . . I'm probably the worst offender.
Beat Down
the beat down with words.
a fist against the pointy part
of the chin paralyzes the whole body.
to poke at the dying scorpion
as the bloodied riders drift by.
let its own weight
slice through the skin.
your words put on our shoulders,
we sing until the voice is but a whisper,
an aging echo, until that echo too fades
and finally echoes no more.
Woodie 4-o6-16
I don't understand sometimes
the laughter, the sneers, the beat down with words.
A booted foot, a stomp
upon the exposed ankle,a fist against the pointy part
of the chin paralyzes the whole body.
That I can understand.
Yet it's never enough,
the need to torture, to poke at the dying scorpion
as the bloodied riders drift by.
It's never enough.
Nail the curtains up, let its own weight
slice through the skin.
Not our fault the cloth was so heavy.
We labor, we bear the weight your words put on our shoulders,
we sing until the voice is but a whisper,
an aging echo, until that echo too fades
and finally echoes no more.
Woodie 4-o6-16
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