I don’t need a punch line, a one liner, or a cheap gimmick.
Just give me a poem with the truth in every line, rhyme, and lyric.
I’m raw and exposed like a bone ripping through my skin fabric.
A poke in the eye to believers still blind by the dazzle of magic.
I’m a bullhorn screaming to warn this travesty has gone tragic.
I’m the next drone bombing some home for rich men’s politic.
I’m the next black shot in the back calling it to serve and protect.
I’m the next pill you need to swill because you know you’re sick.
I’m that lie everyone denies but just can’t get away from it.
I’m those words once they’re heard can never cease to exist.
© Christopher Allen Breidinger
Excerpt from the book “Poet Christopher’s Scenes, Dreams, and Golden Schemes”
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