I Love My Glistening, Gleeming Ruger .38

In observance of our new found loss of innocence and freedom, I have painstakingly added a new entry to Mark's "Poetry" Corner. (To view my previous entries go HERE and HERE.)


For the last 18 days
flowers sprung up
the sun shown bright and warm
cats and dogs lived together
I whistled at work
I went out and
enjoyed the companionship of others.

But now the second coming of the Messiah
haunts our halls
the man walketh on water back home
Freedom
crushed
Fun
grinds to a halt.

Blackened
is my soul
Alone
is my body
Crushed
is my spirit.

I sit destitute
my buddy
my pal
the Goose
keeps me company
until even that
runs out
and mocks me
as the last bit
teases my taste buds
with hope
but only delivers
despair.

Burdened by
hate
Bothered by
a false idol
taking its unforgivable place
above us
deserved, no
inevitable, yes
to stand with
conceit and contempt
for the happiness
the friendships
that others share
but not with Jesus.

But alas,
a bright light
glistening daylight in a night of hate
gleaming hope
I turn to my buddy
what would it be like
to touch it
to taste it
to suck on it's supple barrel
I pick it up
just to tease at first
I stutter and stammer
to find the words.

Click.
Freedom here I come.
Boom.

Alive at last.
Free at last.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served on Microwave Power Level 7 for 3 1/2 Minutes

This poem comes complete with the low-light, weird angle, "artsy" self-portrait that seems to be so popular on sites like Facebook and MySpace.

The playmate who stole toys,
Now fondles little boys.

The pastor who felt other men,
Now dates Ken.

The peer who always had to win,
Now lives in sin.

The teacher who used many manuals,
Now worships Jack Daniels.

The bully who teased in school,
Now is a tool.

The girlfriend who left with Sid,
Now has a kid.

The friend who backstabbed,
Now drives a cab.

The owner who made work hell,
Now has to sell.

The wife who ran away with her brother,
Now has no significant other.

The dad who never understood,
Now is petrified wood.

The self who could never cope,
Now hangs from a rope.


On a scale of 1-10 with 1 being BAD and 10 being AWESOMELY BAD, I'm shooting for a 10+ for this poem. Comments and critiques are appreciated. Anything to help bring out my true, bad inner poet.