A. D. Winans, US




Poem for the Kid I Disappointed

OK, Kid
you have the right to be angry
I mean living in Detroit or the
Big Apple isn't easy
and this war on terrorism
has everyone uneasy
but I'm afraid what it boils down too
is who to rob and who to cheat
who to pray for and who to play with
granted you have known your share
of pain and despair
but there are thousands of men
in prison who live inside their insides
move like smoke in the dark
play with minds like a molester
in the park
men labeled as outlaws by the
keepers of the state
men who have seen idols weep
men butchered and bled
in their sleep
so forgive me, kid
for not living up to your expectations
the sad truth is that I've been killed
a hundred times over in my sleep
felt the Madonna between wrinkled sheets
known the power and guns
of an unfeeling state
and religious bigots filled with hate
angry, me, kid?
you best believe it
who else could write such things
and pass it off as poetry
it must be these hazel eyes
eyes that have seen grown men cry
and one to many friends die
OK, kid
I'll confess, it's true there aren't
many of us left and those who are
are forced to look back
ever fearful of a new generation of vipers
the truth is that one gets you dead
the other crippled or maimed
and when is the last time
you held your head in shame?

look, kid
it's growing late
and I'm slipping into low gear
morning will soon arrive
and I'm running out of beer
soon it will be time to go out
and prove myself all over again
prove that I'm human and able
to withstand the programmed thrusts
at my soul
and I hope for your sake
that when your times comes
you're up to the challenge
no reason to rant and rave
like this
there's a black bird on my balcony
and life is pure bliss
like waiting on the
Godfather's kindly kiss
look, kid
don't worry, I'm only kidding
it's all one big shuck
I really don't give a fuck
I,m as gentle as they come
bring me a bible
and I'll swear on it
no shit, just me, Dillinger
and you
what it really boils down to
is who to rob and who
to pray with
this anger that bounces off
your skull like a wrecking ball
meant for a new shopping mall
all these causes
so damn many causes
and my friends all ending up
like torn scraps of paper
tossed into a trash can
marching to the tune of another
man's band
beginning to sound familiar?
a cliché you say
hell, kid
what did you expect
an original poem








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