rhyme – Page 3 – Kevin Trent Boswell

weekend

“time to pretend that we’re so cool
“as if we’d earned it, and we deserve more
“time to act like a selfish fool
“lose track of the count, settle the score”

you can have all that; you guys go ahead
it’s a hard no; I’m not into it, pass
shallow people make me wish I was dead
I’d rather eat a bowl of broken glass

I Can Bleed

I suppose I could bleed for you
Or perhaps for myself or a friend
I could bleed for money and status
Or as part of a goal, a means to an end

And unfortunately, I have to say,
Because I’d rather not suffer in blindness,
That I will not be bleeding for you,
Because you never return the kindness

Good Luck, Liberal

Liberals need to get a grip on the facts
Democracy has come right off the tracks
Get it through your Progressive head
This doesn’t end without bloodshed

The Epstein list, it just doesn’t matter
Scandals don’t cause tyrants to scatter
The “schism” should cause you no elation
But you’re not ready for that conversation

Maybe you’ll get lucky; I don’t know
Like the British, saying, “You guys can go”
King George set us free just to be nice
And we didn’t even have to ask twice

Or how Southern States just up and quit,
No need for the Union to do actual shit
Confederacy said, “Hey, let’s not fight”
“We’re sorry. We want to make it right”

When that guy with the funny mustache
Apologized for being grumpy and rash
He regretted invading Poland and France,
Gave it right back when he had a chance

But good luck with the nonviolent protest
If boycotts and letters are your very best
You should persuade them any day now
Although, in truth, I don’t know how

Those authoritarian fashy-types,
Don’t yield power over grumbles or gripes
To beat fascism without ending up dead
Get over yourself, and embrace bloodshed

Half

No point in trying, we see the impossible
Eighty percent are chopped in two
Everything we ever did was all wrong
Nothing that we were taught was true

It’s no use to refine or reach out
Nothing is left in the bin to sort
We can’t be two halves of a whole
The ball is always dragged into court

Years of digging, chasing the veins
To find the heart, a center, a core
But emptiness only weaves and bobs
Ducks out and fucks off to explore

Half of us cut in half by the clock
Cold butcher knife calendar cleave
Constantly screaming we’re wrong
We load, we chamber, and leave

Don’t Read This Poem

You don’t want to read this poem
Because it doesn’t conform to your view
Hell, it barely matches my own
So, it might not appeal to you

To enjoy this, you’d have to be able
To challenge your beliefs and behaviors
It doesn’t confirm preconceptions
And it’s utterly devoid of saviors

In this poem, I’m not the champion
It holds up no heroes to idolize
Neither does it have evil villains
There’s no money, sex, gossip, or lies

It asks only that we be better people
That’s all that it does… that’s it
And this is why it stings my pride
And why most will say that it’s shit

You have been warned, if you read this
You may regret some choices you’ve made
You might question some of your actions
Or feel bad about the part that you played

So, don’t even read the first line
That’s how you find yourself in a pickle
Next thing you know, you’re wondering
If you’ve been cruel, selfish, or fickle

Before we start asking tough questions
Ones that show just how we’ve been slack
Before we lose our ability to play Victim
Let’s not read this… and never look back

quiet in the jungle

where have all the lions gone?
they used to roam these parts freely
out on the plains,
sometimes in the streets

but look all around,
and you won’t find any
in the trees
or under the sheets

the lions are hiding,
but they are not afraid,
even though the gazelle
swears otherwise

zebra asks the lion
if his confidence decayed
but the lion says,
“look deep in my eyes”

look closely, you’ll notice
there’s no appetite
for there’s no game here
worth the effort to devour

so, I no longer hunt
because the taste isn’t right
the meat is all bitter
and sour