This poem is for "Eleanor Rigby..." and all the other lonely people who wonder if there will ever be enough light on earth to make room for them in the circle. And still the intellects argue why Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Nobody ever dies in the light. Death comes in Bell Jars when the lid is broken.
This poem is for my mother and all the broken down women that the sidewalk worships. For those who thought that all they really had to do was skip hot showers and tote their troubles in shopping carts with worn out left wheels. And a wheel is a priceless memory when you are haunted by the inheritance of the un-dead.
This poem is for my unborn baby and all the aborted babies who forgot to cry. Gloved fingers pried open their weepy eyes for just a moment. Just long enough to convince them that they weren’t really missing anything if they decided not to let her push them out. And let the others think they have safe passage now...because dead fetuses don’t live long enough to shout out against "Abortion".
This poem is for my uncle Joe and all the nieces he molested when their Mamas were not 'looking'. Those that never tell... and Joe’s world will never know what his knuckles really felt like underneath flowered sun-dresses.
This poem is for peace and all the treaties they didn’t send me. And all the lies they told the child suicide bombers living under the Eastern sun. This is for the truth that television told us about children trading their lives instead of baseball cards and rock candy. Hand grenades aren’t for everyone. But maybe your son will be the chosen one. To die inside of peace poems...
when anarchy is everywhere.
Perhaps no one will even care about the manipulated deaths of children....and how Eleanor Rigby tried to hide
her lonely...underneath the insides of this poem.
*RSVP*
Hunter
All Rights Reserved
This poem is for my mother and all the broken down women that the sidewalk worships. For those who thought that all they really had to do was skip hot showers and tote their troubles in shopping carts with worn out left wheels. And a wheel is a priceless memory when you are haunted by the inheritance of the un-dead.
This poem is for my unborn baby and all the aborted babies who forgot to cry. Gloved fingers pried open their weepy eyes for just a moment. Just long enough to convince them that they weren’t really missing anything if they decided not to let her push them out. And let the others think they have safe passage now...because dead fetuses don’t live long enough to shout out against "Abortion".
This poem is for my uncle Joe and all the nieces he molested when their Mamas were not 'looking'. Those that never tell... and Joe’s world will never know what his knuckles really felt like underneath flowered sun-dresses.
This poem is for peace and all the treaties they didn’t send me. And all the lies they told the child suicide bombers living under the Eastern sun. This is for the truth that television told us about children trading their lives instead of baseball cards and rock candy. Hand grenades aren’t for everyone. But maybe your son will be the chosen one. To die inside of peace poems...
when anarchy is everywhere.
Perhaps no one will even care about the manipulated deaths of children....and how Eleanor Rigby tried to hide
her lonely...underneath the insides of this poem.
*RSVP*
Hunter
All Rights Reserved