Paper, Rock, Scissors

The emaciated singer sat bent over with his legs crossed
His eyes sat back in dark sockets
Hands shook as he tried to smoothly lift a cigarette to
His lips
“Why do they taste like formaldehyde?”
His long thought sealed doors tore open in the
Deep, dank, dark night, oozing dreams of images
In black and gray, the fog of recognition just beyond a light
All of the old daemons with stale breath tumbled out
Sprung loose
Running amok again, gleeful at their freedom
Screaming failure, pointing out flaws
Grimacing smiles eating out conscienciousness
Ingratiating themselves into all seven synaptic layers
“It’s not the big ones that are hard to fight
“It’s the little niggling little ones that creep up
“And in stick in your skin’s pores
“And whisper doubts in your ears
“Causing burning tears to well up
“Longing for the quiet and blankness of nothing
“I’d slit my wrists, but I don’t want to leave a mess
“Poor, poor, pitiful me; weeping for no one
“I’ve indeed outlived a usefulness”
America, wake up...
Our youth are dying the death of million small cuts
It’s not just the dead on a battlefield drawn in some sand colors
But those whose values left vague
Like a drunk who stumbles into the restroom
Starring confused between the mirror and the urinal
Wondering whether he came in to pee or wash his face
Pyramids were not built from the top down
The golden point can only shine if the blocks at the bottom
Stand strong and hold firm
Where are our stone cutters who understand the importance
Of a clean hued block
The daemons have hefted it pockmarked
Pollution has ate into its once clean lines so that it teeters
Just waiting for some final push
Until a dust puff and gone