Nicholas Hazelwood | + Follow Poet |
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Ode To Victims

Impressions and confessions are a dangerous deal, after a slap across the face 
and an ice-cold meal. Johnny was a sick little lonely sad boy, his mom pulled his 
hair and his dad broke his toys. Johnny would cry and kick and scream, until the 
night came to him with a painful, bad dream. His tears evaporated up into his 
brain making the light turn to dark and the membrane insane. A complimentary 
platter of cannonball dreams, melting the matter to vomit and the vomit to 
screams. Johnny did die a painful sad death and his parents showed sorrow 
with conveyors of meth. A dove he was in an over looking tree, in search of 
nutrition and a place to be. He took all the beatings and rose after each shove, 
but why couldn't this child experience some love? Sanity? Insanity? Brothers of 
battered and bitter scars, attempt to reconcile through the murky, old stars. A 
show has begun amongst razorblade tongues, with gasoline drinks and tunes 
over sung. Time is short and the show must continue, so lets tighten our belts 
and feast upon sinew. Snow falls and cows turn blue, now if only I was sane this 
dream may be true. I question my ability to think and produce, my minds in the 
gutter, wrapped in sanity's noose. So lets furnish our glasses up to the rim, for 
sanity has lost, since his brother butchered him. Victims’ run the show and savor 
purloined blood, while they mimic its flow with a statue of mud. They scream at 
the laughter that bellows from their lungs, like the roofing mans calling on a 
ladder lacking rungs. It's the victims’ turn for a voice and a say in it all, it's the 
victims’ turn for a scream, before they die from the fall. Burning down houses and 
stealing rich blood, it's the perps turn to fall into the depths of dense mud.

Copyright © Nicholas Hazelwood | Year Posted 2006

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