We are meant to live the clichés,
and rehabilitating their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint,
building respirators from clichés
to filter-out the virulent dust kicked-up
by the marching pigs.
(revived clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy,
aiming where it hurts most --
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let this corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
so I wield both,
sharpen my quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on smiles hiding shanks
constructed with aspirations of popularity,
or smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the moral majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
propped-up against degrees
writing poems drier than the Sahara --
husks of aspartame-laced lines
tumbling across dunes, only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a wasteland
devoid of accountability and integrity.
We must not fear saying: "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains attempting
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
Never lose faith in Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror smog
emitted by the marching dead.
We must never give up on our dreams.
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
to even find love for our enemies
conducting genocide upon
the language of a purer intent --
to dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
connected closer to our hearts,
in hope that poetry
will once again stand on its own merit.