Unapologetically Fighting …
My story is untold, I uncover my own soul like a Buddhist’s tome.
My I.Q. alone remains bullish like the Dow Jones grows. I pay my tolls.
I own my own notions, keeping firm control, no matter what unfolds
No clones will bootleg my bullshit, or Capone the throne I uphold
Barefoot down a gravel road, I stagger home alone, into the unknown
the catacombs I roam, my mind, a disaster zone, where all voices drone,
the weeds are overgrown, with scattered bones, ashes thrown about,
never shone are my insecurities, within the shadows, they’ve ever grown.
This existence is out on loan, sticks and stones for trolls is what I own,
One is broken, one is thrown, depends upon your mien and tone,
How business is conducted, if your requested track is still condoned,
next time, bring a chaperone and speak only when you’re called upon.
My heart is like a lap around the Audubon, executed turns on uneven stones,
Or moments weak, to feast upon, valves racing through life like bad syndromes
Too many times I piss and moan, what I thought was an apt, sufficient dose,
But found that my position on a mighty things, makes me a misanthrope.
The Ramones always knew it though, that through it, “I wanna be sedated,”
I hate taking up unknown bullies that no one wants to equate with
Euphorically I stay slated with a beer in my hand and the foam faded,
A composer of a full-blown symphony, the one my mind had once created.
I hated thinking I was the only one known for having epiphanies
But this was God’s work, all the ways I’ve tried to guarantee living free
On board I’ll be, to find the cure for all the weak spots in my delivery,
My impurities, how my affinity for hostility was always leading me.
I stay jaded from the street lights and the pointless gang fights
Where everyday nothing seems right, I cherish every small bite,
all nights like Halloween Night, the chalk laid out the street lines,
Another victim, hands tied, feet tied, bloody concrete pipe…
The .380 tucked in the mattress has a mean bite, it screams like—
cop killers in real life, my device, I hope it never has to see light
My grip nowadays is squeezed tight, gun range, infrared beam sights
Evolution stuck in extreme blight, I see corruption and I lean right.
My vision is missing the real sight to rewrite all the wrongs I need right
My goal each night to ignite discourse, to conquer routine plights
It’s not that he might, or she might, it’s how we might, that may seem trite
But remember it takes a village to raise a bunch of teens right.
I am a whole tribe, breathing icy insight, and my throat dried,
I scream out a lone cry, my nose primed, to sniff out drug ties,
Eyes in the back of my head ‘til daylight, and the dawn sun flies
Arms confined, guard dog each night, with frostbite, and mean eyes.
I’m stuck in these visions where my memories played are dreamlike
A clean slide away from the bleak night, the reverence I’m redeemed by
The mirror, the picture I gain my self-esteem by, a glimmer of maybe Christ
Or perhaps a window past the darkness, a seraphim light, my pen to wield might
I ghostwrite in this small city, where kids disappear when the streetlights—
Don’t beam right, maybe it’s your city, where nothing ever seems right,
air so thick, my throat’s tight, and living in fear, even your coat might,
Hold a few extra pounds from a scope sight, one that enacts smite when it ignites.
Precision is not my strong side, I hit the target most times, somewhat an erudite,
Known for leaving the kitchen if the Fahrenheit will not identify as alright
the red bar raised to extreme heights, these neophytes think its paradise,
But really it’s just another day in the life, terrified of such paradigms, I think twice.
Fear is shared alike, maybe I’m stubborn when someone dies, these tearless eyes,
We meet again at the temple site, or the corner church at night, let me clarify,
The news of death is no longer rarified, some jargon every day, these elegies write,
Some still breakdown and bawl cry, but that is not the face I will wear tonight.
The road less travelled, where the ravens and the black crows patrol hillsides
Evermore in hindsight, we roleplay the puppets of the playwright, it’s finite,
Our thinking is our indictment, being polite to parasites never ends right.
I march by torchlight for your rights, maybe yes, my methods are impolite,
But the necessity to expedite freedom is not some fly-by-night operation,
This battle ahead is fought with terabytes and oversights, staying out of sight
the perpetrators have extinguished pilot lights and blacklisted your satellites.
The fortress of empathy a recondite allusion, to prey upon emotional invites,
Blatant disregard of black and white, preaching greyness as alternate delight
This proxy fight only rears its ugly head at twilight, by starlight, right in eyesight,
A figure head filled with blatherskite, perpetuates fabrication as clear insight.
My story is still untold though, my chin high, antsy at ringside, my future prize fight,
until then, I will continue opposing propaganda proposed through some sound bites
unfolding the whole story, the ugly truth of your street corners, the cruel lies, the gunfights,
the blind eye, reciting my pledge of allegiance to my God and the flag of my birthright.
For more works by this author see Paul Neglia on The Creative Exiles.
You can also see more great work by Paul Neglia on HubPages.