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Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity



and there’s some truth in that
I tell myself, as I dab hot tears
from my eyes

happy ones

I’ve just listened to one of my heroes
tell me how much they enjoyed
my poetry after all, the clarity of image,
how it rose from the page like smoke
through a difficult subject matter.

Truth is, everything else
is background noise.

I think about how many fists
have punched through proverbial drywall,
the narcissistic cunts that have gathered
like flies on shit to play who claims
the biggest pile

and I wonder why I got so upset
over the woman with the dusty vag
or clapped-out-car Sue
or the guy with small dick energy
who wanted to serve my pain
as if he was feeding tigers steak
through high fences at a zoo

and it doesn’t matter

none of it ever fucking matters

because there is air in my lungs
and warm sheets of paper
and the sun rises despite gravity
weighing that fucker down

there are friends, and there is love
overflowing my cup as I clear
blockages from my past
mouldy, dead wood
I banish from my stream

because, I’m doing it girls—

I’m winging the life
I could only dream of when I slept
under an iron bridge looking up
at homeless stars

I’m finally loving in a way
that I want to be loved

it doesn’t matter
a single
solitary
shit
what you take from me

because this peace is mine

and after all, my loves—
people throw rocks
at things that shine.


Written by Northern_Soul (-Missy-)
Published
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