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Best Poems Written by Mickey Ryan

Below are the all-time best Mickey Ryan poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Disciple's Eyes

I am a disciple, a master in the art of tribal survival that is these streets.
In need of a money seed, to plant and grow a money tree.
Maybe then, I could get these police to quit eyeballing me.
Here race knows no bounds.
As bounds know no race.
Yet, race isn't the issue in this race to outlive.
They say serve and protect, but I suspect another motive.
Forced to lie at night with a glock cocked and locked, full clip and hollow tips  
across my heart.
My middle finger itching and twitching with a level of paranoia that tears me apart.
Ride at night with me and see the police crawl from every crack and crevasse.
Confide in who you might and prey they dont find that four-five under that arm rest.
Its easy to see these five-oh dont know I wash these hands.
As Im pulled over and searched for drugs of the cocaine brand.
If its not one thing its another, gangsters killing each other over color.
Drug deals and the theft of automobeals.
Crack heads and dead ends.
Dreaming puts a price on your head.
Get your head in the clouds and, bang bang, your dead.
Going so far as to wait in a car outside.
Ambitions halted with my enivitable demise.
Word spreads like wild fire when sight of my desire erupts.
So now its down to me versus the "to serve and corrupt".
Its not what you eat.
You are what you see in this city.
Become what your surrounded by.
Like it or not, undone by what your grounded by.
Ive seen more than I could ever get any pen to bleed onto a single piece of paper.
And Im determined to fulfill my need to bleed it all before I'm off to meet my maker.
These are the streets as seen through the eyes of a disciple.

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Urban Manifestation

If we looked hard enough we could see.

Something going on daily in the shadowed areas of the country.

This routine.

This time it's a man who cannot feed his seed.

Welfare and food stamps cannot suffice, you see.

And the nine to five is sucked dry before a penny can be spent freely.

Screamed and screamed, this his seed, did proceed.

Leaving this man tired and weary.

For this man did not know how to quell his baby's crying and in any way help.

Ambient circumstances drove this man to seek a temporary wealth.

Even if that meant taking away another man's health.

He excommunicated himself from himself.

So he didn't take a second to pump the brakes and stop the confrontation.

Now the police are calling confirmation of a body bag, all because of a righteous 
hesitation.

And so ends another living gestation.

Another life lost, and another closed casket funeral reception.

How can there be hope when gunplay is the latest sensation?

How can we keep dreaming in a country that needs rehabilitation?

But, despite the protesting and demonstrating, we find our selves with a lack of funds.

So we resort back to guns.

These are not puns, this viscous cycle, this American menstruation.

With death as the only compensation.

And a people hoping they wont be the next star of the church congregation.

With this fear, only spreading the urban manifestation.

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Freestyle Thought

Like a messiah nailed down.
Steaks are high...
Cant ask why, for me, it's do or die.
You would have to live it to get it.
To see why I couldnt regret it.
To see what the significance is.
What the brilliance in my defiance and unwillingness of compliance is.
Pushes me to blow minds with ambition as ammunition.
All these years, tears.
I would bring to your eye.
But, dont give me your pitty.
I need you to hate me.
Like clock work.
Tic-Toc goes the sound of the cocked glock.
And should it bring my demise.
The word of the wise would say.
Hell hath no fury like the fire that burned in his eyes when he was alive.
It is the uncomparable what I pour onto this paper.
Yet, here I am still behind the sceens.
Breaking my back just trying to get my work seen.
Looking for a way in.
Or a way out.
Dying inside every minute I cant figure it out.
Take a walk in my shoes.
And realize you couldnt even lift your feet.
Instantly submerged in my missouri, you would be.
Immidiatly gasping for air.
And find that you cant find any anywhere.
Twelve.
Twentey-Eight.
Eighty-Seven.
Concieved into a twisted society of cocaine elietests.
With an evanesence of an I used to give a damn state of mind.
But, try as I might I could never rewind the hand of time.
Or the blind crime that is this story.
But, please. I beg you.
I need you to keep feeding my flame.
So that I may kill and maime you with these words I spray.
Decay your brain of thoughts tought to you in vein.
Dulled pain, something like the two vikaden pills distilled under my tounge.
Or the loaded gun, I cock and bust at my temple just for fun.
Only to see the bullets bounce off me like im here for a reason.
And its only through this ink that I can seem to realease this demon.
This demon, a heathen.
Fallen from grace.
Like I, In a world limited by race.
But, inflamed and enraged by the anger hate and violance.

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Love Is the Slowest Form of Suicide

As I lay in a pool of my own...
Thought.
Contemplating everything you are not.
Crippled.
To the point where you cant even be civil.
Still I find myself unable to go on without you
Eventhough I cant stand to be around you.
I gave you everything I had.
And anything I didn't.
But if I could slow time for just one minute.
Maybe I could see what I lack in clarity.
But really, such as, an impossibility.
And ongoing proof of my niaveity.
One look at you and I fall sick.
With you using murderous jealousy as your new little trick.
I cant seem to end this.
My fault, perhaps for being so spineless.
Gasping for air and still suffocating.
Infatuation leading to a painful bleeding.
Not of body and not of mind.
Just as a feeling with no healing time.
Compensation is my retaliation.
To this suicide Ive plunged into without hesitation.
So slowly I die.
With a constant wondering why...
I put myself through the slowest form of suicide.

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Killed By a Blessing

Tell me your lying.

Tell me this isn't mine.

Made a mistake this time.

Provoking life with no revoking of reality.

To or to not make it a fatality.

And actually live with the mentality.

Of having a gun on my own flesh and blood.

Yet, sensing my own would be done.

To take this one of pregnancy.

With the irony.

Of living a legacy.

That is the epitome of the pit of me.

And my stupidity.

All I am.

All I haven't been.

What I could of been.

Not to be left dead.

Killed not by a bullet, but by a blessing.

Life is to costly for me.

There is no mabey for this baby.

This legacy just isn't ready.

Nor am I.

To die.

Of ambition and living.

Still itching for a contract.

To contract a means of green to be freed.

Yet, in the wake of my mistake.

I am left with the deed of destroying my seed.

Bringing up the burning, yearning of knowing...

Positive or Negative?

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

The City's Prayer

Our brothers who are in heaven, fell a victim to this game.

With freedom come, thy will have won, from our birth to our fight to heaven.

To live one more day but no sooner become dead, and short live our trespassers before we 
are short lived by those who trespass against us.

Kneeling before temptation and surrounded by evil. 

For thy lives for that freedom, the hour, and the glory for ever and ever.

-Amen-

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Running Colors

In a city of gun wielding, drug dealing and heathens.
Home of the pity where murder offers mysterious reasons.
In a neighborhood of red, a man of blue unknowingly walks through.
Where vendettas are settled with berettas.
Trained are these creeds, to perform the evil deeds.
Of avenging their comrades, who have fallen in these streets.
Strolling down the sidewalk.
Reality sets in, within the time of a gun cock.
On this block three reds look on to make him dead.
Cringing at the truth, this soul of blue sences the dread.
From out of their eyes, knives do fly.
If looks could kill, this man would die.
So here begins the primal fear.
The chruning of the bowels and that ringing in the ear.
The violance can never end.
Life and death, here, come full circle again.
Feelings of instinct complete his fear.
As this man of blue fights back the running of the tears.
Beginning a sprint with the occasional squint back.
To see if the attackers are still on track.
Around a corridor, and over a fence.
Over a car door, and around with no sence.
Down an alley way.
This is his last chance to live another day.
The reds are closing in.
With his legs about to give in.
Nearly in tears, he pleas with God.
Swearing, daring never to sin again.
For his fight is almost dead.
Disrupting the peace, he bursts onto the street.
Spotting a police car on the usual beat.
A serious glance the officer offers the nearly delirious man.
But nothing more, just a smile as vile as one can.
Casually driving away.
Leaving a returng of that churning feeling as he turns to face the other way.
And out a sound rang.
Bang.

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Again

I fell again.

I just have to get back up and brush it off again.

Looks like it's back to the books again.

Plotting and scheming a way out.

Desperate in my ways, and still cant figure it out.

Prayed to God, and still dont know what this city is about.

And here I am again, stuck once again, amidst this nine to five.

And here I am again, pulling my hair out pondering another way to survive.

And here I am again, watching this clock roll over half past five.

We dont realize, until it's too late, that life comes at us fast.

I must let the past be past and find another way before mine ends with a shotgun blast.

I cant go back to these streets, or I'll just find my mother at my mass.

How long can this tunnel be?

Who could know what its like to be me?

Born in America and still I wonder: What is it like to be free?

I have this worldly sized burden on my shoulders.

It gives me headaches like death by raining boulders.

Look in my eyes, and see nothing by determination and a desperate hold of my composure.

I bleed my heart though this pen.

Knowing that life will never be what it was again.

Sick of kneeling over in tears crying out amen.

Realized I have to take it by my own hand.

Before I work myself to death by my own hand.

Need to put this gun down before I go to jail by my own hand.

I'll go back to the books again.

I'll get back up and brush it off again.

I won't fall again.

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Show Me

Growing bald from tearing my hair out.

Fighting the feeling that I'm out and down for the count.

This inebriation has me wanting to scream and shout.

Fighting tempting temptation to want to wash it all away with a vodka bottle.

In this lake of pity, I am compelled  to wallow.

Fighting frustrating frustration to blow these issues away with a handful of hallow tips.

In the light of knowledge, I fail to take a hint.



-If I had someone to show me-



Vibrance is fading.

Ambitions are raging.

Pinned down by the almighty dollar and all or nothing.

Has me at war with myself.

And no help.

Just people saying this is all I write about.

And no way out.



-I would change my direction-



Traveling the path of a long line of failures.

There must be something I missed all these years.

Or mabey its something in these pills.

That gives the bitterness to these shackles that give me the chills.

Unable to brake free of them, so they hold me down.

Helpless in my efforts, I am about to drown.

Provoking the question of the end is the answer.



-And save myself before I-




Look around and see, only a select few are truly free.

And I have grown weary of saying one day that will be me.

Staring down this barrel I have no control over.

Craving divinity to stop it before its all over.

Before I can figure it out.

Before I can let it out.

Before I am out.



-Die-

Details | Mickey Ryan Poem

Graceful Outlash

Lets get it perfectly clear.

This isn't a plea for equality here.

Should you continue to look down on this poetry.

It just, whoa is me.

All this talk of drugs, guns, and run-ins with cops is not what the audience wants 
to hear.

Gasp!

Is it to hard to grasp the fact that this just may be reality?

This isn't what editors want to see.

Its un-published rubbish.

It doesn't belong in the poetry community.

Trying to make a break.

Plant my stake.

Now I find myself about to break.

Lash out.

Black out.

Snap back.

And induce heart attacks.

For these old folks with half the skill as me.

Who supposedly make up the better half of the "poetic diversity".

At least this is what Im told.

But Im bold enough to know these words have no bounds.

Holds all grounds.

This is for both rich and poor.

All ages, races, colors, and creeds.

If you can bleed, this is for you.

And know that every last word of this is true.

You can talk until your blue in the face.

Its only going to blow up in your face.

No matter how many times you tell me I don't belong.

I'm just going to keep on writing along.