not really a poem, more a brick wall of nerves
By Candy Cain
woke to the cracks in the establishment
ready to pull a matchstick magic trick
on the collapsing infrastructure.
this house is built to rupture
and i’m unsure if the tenants will be prepared enough to weather this,
but please don’t feed me none of that bluff 'bout sharing and togetherness.
i’ve searched that never ending pavement for any evidence of it to help me build from the ground up,
but all i ever found was (what?):
brief seconds of humanity parsed
between long stretches of whatever we actually are.
the fact of this tackles me hard, leaving me cracked
still i mosey with this heated path, spackling scars.
yet as the sentiments are peeled,
the sediments reveal
the source of the symptoms have been embedded in the build.
now i’m out here squaring circles tryna produce some kinda solution
that i could deem useful to minus the nooses affect,
pining for any excuses to set
fire to the crops of this tenements crabgrass
til the smoke plumes high and the garbage burns to ash.
no use in hiding it, it’s one hard turn and crash
and i’m still figuring out how to cope, like “is there any hope?”
nope, but there are aspects still that help keep me enduring,
like the sight of emerald clovered grass during an overcast morning.
theres inherent balance in nature that we have long since spited,
tightly clutching a kingdom while it dies in exhaust, it sighs.
the utility of the fight is fixed to a Big Capital, F in chat
for the people who could never open their eyes open their eyes open their eyes.