a poem...(a poem) by lucas mcclure

They don't need you to think,

they just want those these visceral response reactions to remain intact

They don't want you to know what they are doing to you,

that you just keep pace.

Would I call them Christ like characteristics?

Nah, we're not Europeans, not even American in nature.

In stories of crossing deserts to find ourselves,

finding our flaws, here we are these stack city scrapes

Then we cross oceans to quench our thirst,

immunities to mirrors, fearful craves the bright escape

They talk and talk, it seem distracting,

we start to feel empty,

lost innate character traits of a land built on solid morals,

detached,

debate consumed to the swallow superficial arguments

hardly intrinsic, borrowed but claimed to be self evident,

built on the backbone in a simpler yesterday.

They talk and talk, and you seem to listen,

just methodical scratches now, on loose scraps of paper,

subjective symbols upon systems,

this reacting against the world is evolving too fast for us to keep up

We count the lines on my face, the scares on my hands and arms,

I'm nothing that is really new.

Tired eyes fall to meet coffee rings. Oh the magnolia.

Book stores are closing. And I can't find good coffee table books,

These books are too heavy,

and television and pop culture are in so

I'm out of most of these conversations waiting patiently .

We should stop searching for love,

truth wasted on these long winded cigarette breaks.

I need to feel more human punching to push the typeface attempting to capture the beauty.

Extinction before destruction of notions of creations breath the need that feed this fucking ingenuity.

Secretly, I've been god, been letting time sift away.

Reasonability consistent... everything's the same

Just a little different now but not enough to worry about yet.

should we expect it to change?

Exist the world and just happens around you, murdering you,

out of convenience feed in to this machine.

It's time to update these history text books, that hypersensitivity is really getting to me,

losing feeling in my finger tips, that itch my scabs, pull at my seams, flick my half lit cigarette.

so by no means a winner, the defected profess their interpretations of history.

They unfold, the defeatists never seem fall short of breath,

we've seem to know this for quite some time,

and I finally speak up,

they never look past my words trying to uncover what becomes of me in the dark corners,

a mind,

these restless sleeps,

losing information piece by piece

and I speak,

they never could they look past the labels, we freely give ourselves.

Once I was told I was beautiful sometime before I met you. My apologies.



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[madixon2]

What to say to you? Except you are a poet, whether you believe it to be true or not. After watching this post twice I went back and revisited some of your earlier work. Bro, your only getting better and better. What I love about your words is that I can instantly connect and your delivery always makes me hear and feel them. If you ever decide to publish a book, I'm definitely buying. But if you do, work each structure, map your phrasing to how you want it read. And as always...thanks!

[newcomposition]

@madixon2

thanks that dose mean a lot. i'll keep that in mind when while i keep working.

[icpchad]

Hell yeah ... well said.