Face down Demons

Knuckles split and bleed. Pain registers. Youth clenches tightly into a fist. Dry swollen eyes. Youth hits the wall and breaks. My feeble mind, always so full of idealistic passion. Becomes frustration, becomes anger, becomes rage. Rage becomes a fist, a tightly knotted hammer built by years of hopeless hopefulness. Blow after blow hurled blindly and limp-wristed at life. I paint you all a portrait of grandeur. My magnificent failed attempts to batter the suffering of others. Power has turned the face of authority from rescue to fear. Sirens signal the coming of uniformed locust sent to mindlessly feed on the all to common failures of man. The face of our leaders is now the face of a starving apex predator. No natural enemy. The fists that used to raise a surge of bitter purpose now cripple at the shoulder, unable to lift the great weight of apathy deeply rooted in a false sense of pride and security. What I hate in you I first hate in myself. If I cannot break my shackles I must gnaw my limbs off at the joints, as any captured predator would. Survive at all cost. And drag the disfigured body of a once capable man to the doorsteps of tyranny. One dying beast will not change the world. If we all loose a limb, maybe we can help each other break these chains. One fist can still inflict a few malice filled well aimed strikes. The truest form of poverty is that of the soul, a soul that has lost it's strength to hope in it's fellow man. Every day my wrists break, and every morning I hurl hit after hit. These hands cannot create art. Calloused, knotted, twisted messes of bitter fucking dreams. I Know I am not alone. I see it in your eyes. Everyday. behind all the media induced bubble gum drenched dribble that you breast feed off of your true mother. Of all of our mothers and fathers, of our role models and our heroes. A pixel perfect plethora of scandalously clad woman and chest shaved, well oiled, neanderthals. T.V. has become nothing more that a sickening display of our inner most insecurities, fixed with plastic, recycled into a pretty voice and a good pitch selling us everything we hate about ourselves. If you are not careful you may end up a picture perfect plasticliposuckedbotoxinated perversely distorted human. My greatest fear is that one day mankind's only form of art will be being human.