it is sad.

it would seem that we share nothing sometimes
but it would seem like nothing is all we share.

we are
or have become
like clichés
designed to do nothing
but pull pussy.

we spent all our vulgarity when we were young,
now we are questing for the right
to speak of our youth
without feeling
like children caught in the husks
of dead adults
to proud to know the difference
between
now
&
then.

it is sad
I think
that in a world this vast
we find compassion
on the fingertips
of vagrant souls
passing
ghosty
through our days.

it is sad
that I must say these things.
I should be lost
in a love song.

it is sad, or something like sad,
that I came all the way over here
to discover what it is to be a man.

for some time
I have wondered if I am capable of living my dreams,
or if in fact that is as foolish
as believing that poetry is a means to an end.

it would be foolish
to pass judgment on myself
when I am no more holy than the next man.

though
perhaps
I am worthy of judgment
or something akin to it,
for in my youth I believed in screams
more than I ever did
in prayer.
now,
crazies the world over
ask god to watch out for me
not knowing the extent of my sins.
they suppose
I guess
that I believe or at least will be forgiven
and that by asking themselves
they are covering their own asses.

there is a passage I am sure
somewhere in the bible
to explain to me
conveniently
why I feel this way
and whatever the hell it is
god wants me to take from this.

too bad I suppose
that
I am still a faithless outcast.

a killer
yet untested
and poet
forever fearful
of the day
I am judged for the poems
I never wrote.

back home
my best friend
is hung over on
‘fine irish whiskey’
he says.
and I want for him the world
but
I think
it may never be within my grasp
to give.

this is the type of travesty that shows me there is no god.

simple and direct
nothing is required
except for the belief in nothing.

forgive me father
for I do not
give
2 shits.

and it may be sad,
people who love me may cry
thinking I am a damned soul,
but really,
tomorrow I may be blown up
or shot through the throat
like other boys around me.
what the fuck do I care
if they are crying over my eternal soul.

so god it’s you and me and nobody else.
I’m carrying a rifle
300 rounds
1 frag grenade
and three knives

bring it.

though in the interest of fair play
I roll deep these days
a platoon of shit talking
wanna be
might be
could be
bad asses
ready to pick up and throw down whenever the time is right.

you couldn’t kill me if you tried...

this poet
is losing a battle
with the world inside himself.

somewhere in here
I have snuck up on myself like a ninja
and assassinated the last hope of poetry.
somewhere in the lines of this poem
i have snuck up on myself like a ninja
and assassinated the last hope of me.

whatever
we are all flaming angels here anyway.
too comfortable to be dying easy
I am just waiting now for the crack whistle and snap.

waiting for the one with my name on it.

Home -- Poetry

Copyright 2005 -- Scott Kirkpatrick -- All Rights Reserved
May not be used in whole or part without written permission of the Author