P.O.W.

When in doubt

what it is you wish to be

crying about,

etch a stanza out

of your disdain

for the pain you don't have

in the ground.

So we can see

vividly

how you want us to drown

in your filth.



But if you knew

your name

would become

what it became

in the poetry game,

the need for pain would've seeked

a quieter outlet,

than where it came.



Ten thousand strangers

try to figure out

the cryptic anger

of one

artistic stranger.

And he gets his rocks off

trying to

knock their socks off

with his

machine-gun banter.



Prisoner of Word:

Building piles of ammo --

A poetry soldier in camo

hiding the truth:

that there is no war

to be fought,

as he circles the swamp

and stomps around

in his boots,

hoping to cause a stir

and stir a cause

for him and his troops

to overcome.

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