I wrote a very, very long poem.
Once the burst of impulse wore off, I realized how fucking self-indulgent it was.
Now I'm just pissed off.
So here's this:
A dead bird lay in the street.
Look at its neck,
thrown back as if in
defeat.
Curly-headed children make you cry,
not unlike the way you did
when you saw your own child
die.
Most old people die alone.
Their children left them years ago
when they were fully
grown.
"Gays and Atheists just try to rebel.
They're the scum of the earth,
and they'll burn in
hell."
Once the burst of impulse wore off, I realized how fucking self-indulgent it was.
Now I'm just pissed off.
So here's this:
A dead bird lay in the street.
Look at its neck,
thrown back as if in
defeat.
Curly-headed children make you cry,
not unlike the way you did
when you saw your own child
die.
Most old people die alone.
Their children left them years ago
when they were fully
grown.
"Gays and Atheists just try to rebel.
They're the scum of the earth,
and they'll burn in
hell."
wow.
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