Fighting Words
Poetry is a fight.
We slam the words with our fisted mouths,
shouting the counterrevolutionary, mercenary, catatonic, demonic, mechatronic fury of feeling we damned disperse
to hook your faces into shock
Go to places where time no longer clocks
and cannot stop because the world keeps spinning on and so do our heads.
Poetry is a siege.
Our embodied words collide with your walls of well-being, sequestering the ceiling of self-doubt, destruction, and denial
And the world outside is burning alive
While we lay listening to music instead
Stuck in our beds
Of tradition, honor, and law.
The fact is that flaws so raw and red
Run raging through our heads but they stay there
Never to be stopped by an act
A pact, a personal contract to enact an attack on the idleness, sickness instead.
Enter the fight, begin the siege and pledge your
allegiance to a flag other than those you’re taught
but the one you’ve wrought and wrapped and warmed with the service of your heart
to start a new nation
a grand destination of promise and possibility and perpetuity for the continuity of ideas
greater than yourself and stronger than mere wealth that can’t sit on the shelf
to be overlooked as things of the past so while you last just a take stand.
Poetry is a fight, and we the soldiers
Marching on, standing strong as we endeavor for the freedom of our minds,
the eradication of crimes that trap us in a living cell, what hell to be in a cell of expectation, devotion, and insubordination, but this adjudication asks us to be freed.
Poetry is a fight, and it doesn’t end tonight.
