Like a stone you sit and take in
all the words I throw from my pen
Let it sink into your mind and then
I am gone like I had never even been.

Do you even care about the things I write?
See the wisdom of battles I fight?
Grotesque images play in dark and light
among other things I lost my sight

What is it to be who I am?
Monsters of mice and man
Settle down at the bottom of the pan
and we wait saying we'll do what we can.

Save my daughter. Save my son.
What war is there to be won?
I cannot move the burning sun
because I am at the wrong end of the gun.

You wallow there and judge me
for the things I write but more importantly
the things that I leave out passingly
I didn't even see what was meant to see.

Worry about death. Write about politics.
What? More of this? it makes me sick.
Sisters and brothers warm me as I have no more licks
upon my back. No more. No more politics. No more of this sickness.

White is white on a page that means nothing
Black is black on a page that means nothing.
What are we trying to fight here? Ourselves? Or Nothing?
we are not nothing, we fight nothing. We are the soldiers of something fighting Nothing.