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Ripe for Lynching.

Never mind me.
Go ahead and laugh.
Call me crazy, dismiss
me as a madman.

Suppose I can only hope
that you still breathe
to bear the fear
and confusion

all while
so fucking alone,
so enthusiastically
kicked down,

used and abused
when the world
as you know it goes
so dark and cold,

only hope that you live
to see the day
when the shit hits the fan,
when our shared,
perpetually-nurtured lies
are not nearly
enough to armor us.

All the blisters bursting,
all that callous built,
yet this breaks the toughened
skin, leaves us bleeding, bursting,
gushing our vital essence.

You, you will turn,
you will look at me.

Your suspicion
of my utter insanity
instantly replaced by fears
of my sleeping complicity,

as innocent
as the me you know
may seem to be, deep
down, you fear

that I am not
me, but one of them,
a sleeping enemy

out to get
you, driven
to bring you down
as they take over.

I would be hung
from the gallows,
and I know
that all to well.

With all of you,
all too often difference
means either distinction
or dysfunction,

one or zero,
black of white,
entirely void
of gray, typically
between one and zero,
in the heart
betwixt polarities,

and I am simply
not arrogant enough
to risk fooling
myself, as I feel
certain of the nature

of my sentence
when and where that gavel
inevitably swings.

After all,
history sings:
like a Hollywood movie,
like the pattern
behind any conceivable trend,
like a redundant
techno song…

anything alien,
ripe for lynching.


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