Pond-scum.

Americana Injustica

I can’t –
I could never,
understand,
the clever and,
conniving hand,
whatever,
I refuse –
to lose,
my final stand,
not well-planned,
I suppose –
that I cut off,
your nose,
to spite your face,
again,
oh damn!
here I am,
you can’t out-pace,
my winged friends;
I emptied –
my lungs to you,
words only true,
but silly man,
you’ve gone and,
ran,
yourself through,
the dirty blood,
I bleed too –
I can show you,
but my blood,
thick as glue,
rubber cement,
bent true,
we’re good,
stay back,
and I won’t,
cut ribbons through,
the very likes of you,
the face I’d like to –
grind my crumbling,
jagged molars into,
until the image,
of its pond-scum,
contaminated brew,
burns it’s way,
right into something,
anything –
other than you.

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