• Did you know that, on the first chest compression
    you can hear the ribs break?
    They splinter pittifully under interlocked fingers
    that are woven with good intentions
    They crackle like firewood
    well, my heart is beating irradically
    but no one seems to have the balls to shatter my sternum
    and bring me back into the realm of the living
    The angels are singing:
    "come home child! We havent seeeen you in a while!"
    but in spite of their beckoning I rise from my predetermined sarcophagus
    and spit vengace onto the onlookers
    I can't fabricate this
    It's essential that you understand that my fingertips burn
    from years of ripping away flesh when Im nervous
    and that I can't really smile
    because of complications during my birth
    that left my right side partially paralyzed
    and from here is where I draw my anguish
    from the back of a trailer where heartache and I were introduced
    from the purple bedroom where my first love drew first blood
    both litterally and figuratively
    from a plain white bedroom in the middle of a forest
    where a seven year old boy held a knife in his prepubescent hand
    and waited for that ******** to put another TOE out of line
    the angels are screaming:
    "Dont let them get away with this!"
    But I embrace the malignent hatred and channel it through a papermate pen
    onto the bleached remnaints of what was once a mighty Oak tree
    And I can feel the pain of that forest
    as if it was my own brothers that were being slaughtered
    and how can I keep silent when everything from the saplings to the Saviors
    are being beaten and whipped into place?
    This is my lament to the arrogant leaders that forgot me!
    And this is my protest to the grotesque cheaters that bought me!
    and tried to sell me into mental and emotional slavery
    I dont want the so-called cures to my "condition"
    And I really dont give a ******** if you choose to listen
    This is might fight, in my own hands
    and what I cant stand
    is the people that refuse to acknowledge the evil in the world
    and the people that plaster propaganda on every TV screen and window pane
    and the population lets these criminal masterminds directly into their cerabela
    and allows the few good men to die on the edge of a poorly paved street
    I am so tired of shouting!
    It seems to me that when my decibel level is constantly akin to a jet plane engine,
    that somebody, ANYBODY should understand
    the angels laugh:
    "why on earth do you think you're so important"
    Is it because I have bled for the benefit of those who cant defend themselves?
    Is it because I give every drop of my own potential
    into changing a single spec of reality?
    Is it because I can hear angels?
    Enough of my sick spitting and quitting or admitting my faults
    if I had a flaw, it would be that I allow my own problems to continue
    And I feed them like a fire in the brush
    my heartbeat slows low into a steady high pitched line
    Did you know that, on the first chest compression
    you can hear ribs break?
    All of a sudden, the sound of my bones collapsing inside of me echos
    and the angels whisper:
    "Was it worth it?"