The young;
impartially perceptive to harsh realities.
Different crews and cliques of kids fill the halls
and uptown.
Down my spine, a chill crawls.
Beautiful girls and liars who follow them, infest this realm.
A kiss on balls.
He who kicks out the first foot, falls
no soul to back him
no boots to stomp against the masses who mall & trample him.
What kind of example do his invisible allies assemble, in such sin?
I’m young & alive
‘going to take full advantage of this privilege.
Attractive inner core, and out,
with a natural knack, to explore the skeleton of words,
fight, and keep score;
die, and come back.
Eighteen years and counting
until I finally crack.
(My) Eyes spotted friends & blood brothers on sight,
together again, to light up another
night.
A makeshift rhyming meter, is in flight.
Believe
life is a fleeting element
death seems forever
existence held close, between breasts
an enigma, revealed in gradual dosage,
details, uncovered in cryptic undertone,
as are Mary Jane’s potions.

Van Reese’s mixed signals;
stewing in confliction, as her vibes find my ear and go in.
Soul Enigma grabs them with a fire, as hell spews out gin.
‘Spark my lighter to shock the senses
with self-inflicted pain, relentless.
There is a beat in the head, as I beat my own head
against odds, of mythological proportion.
Great, now I have another ominous headache
taking pain pills,
unlike the Ex., which drips on the cerebellum, down the spine.
Drugs kill, by your own will
our generation seems content to live their days blind.
The difference between SICK and ILL.
What if “rhetorical” becomes the thing in question?
I could not decipher the entire meaning in it’s existence.
With each passing day, no matter how I use it,
I lose some lively connection
and you can’t blame me, when I speak of resurrection.
If you were free to mold a timeline of life,
you would want to polish it’s reflection, too!
‘Rather plant my own garden, then wait for God to drop a clue
of how to cultivate the soil.
The dysfunction around me is so soiled
I’ve tried to kill the disease, but the bacteria refuses to be boiled.
And this mold only grows further, no matter how spoiled…
And they do not a thing.
These are only simple words
from a dangerously complex mind.
This is one approach to writing down thought, which I choose.
(I am) a wordsmith; vocabulary, tight in review.
Take these words home.
If I am the Devil, Hell is “home.”
Some segments of time, I feel alone…
Until I meet up with my brothers… Then we are
poetry-in-motion’s crew… Think it thru.

Mike O’Toole
 

 

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