deepundergroundpoetry.com

A collection of almosts

Iím part man, part ghost
all of my fractures stolen
from hammered fists
in momentary madness,
blind in their rage

Iím silent because
there is no outlet for the burn
beyond ambulances and bullets
blasting their skull sirens
through a wall of being

I lock the doors
because all trust is gone
in a society stabbing my back
until I bleed to death
upon a moon-stained sidewalk

I am a collection of almosts,
nearly alive, not quite enough
to look upon my wounds
knowing I am not the flesh
I was meant to be.
24601
Written by 24601 (John Brady)
Published
Author's Note
28/30
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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