Jack Speaks

A Poem by PL Fremmie

A married-in fixture.

A staple.

Permanently slammed and sodderred

Into our hearts,

Deflecting ridiculous requests of many parts

His expressions of

Matter and relevance,

Knowledge of Entitlements

Scholars, the 99%s.

Warm smile adorned and

Tractor-beam strong.

He's a victim of prying and prodding.

The kind that drives me to run and hide,

Close my eyes. Mortified at times, thinking that this disguised venom spews from gluttonous, over-educated, under-read Experts on life's crimes.

These All You Can Eats at the

Buffet of Pain.

Shoveling in the Apocalypse

Feeding a malnourished brain.

Incessant persistence.

No, thanks.

No thanks for one reason or another.

Is it about what you're afraid of?

Perhaps YOUR buried baggage Brother?

The secret simmers

And sleeps in the wings.

In the long grey alley

Incredible things

Have occurred to me.

To be brave, unquestionably.

Warring demons, slaying toxicity.

Small victories.

Another feast.

Harboring a tempest waiting to breach.

Inside barbed wired walls

Jack finally speaks.

"Imagine a devastating need. Can't stop the bleed of a hidden disease. A salivating beast that hides in the weeds. It silently preys on the weak and the strong.

Knows ALL wrong. Knows what it does best, tearing layers of flesh. Piece by Piece. Holds you within cages of lust, self pity, white dust. It transforms the kind. Changes your mind. One purpose to hurt, destroy, and kill. Taking unlimited hostages, it slowly drains, the grace of God from your porous veins. Your body turns into an empty box. A sarcophagus. Hot shivers, cold stories are told.

One day when you think there's no hope, you tether the line, like a circus tight rope.

You shake, you claw, you twitch, you thaw. You grind, you tap, you pace and you stare. Into emptiness, fingers, toes are nowhere. Your visions of hope are lost and forgotten. Your peace and serenity completely down trodden. It comes down to a scene, the details so clear. You feel the cold wind blow through your long hair. The dark fall below seems quiet and quick. The idle of the car, your heart is so sick.

Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Flashes of tears are vividly clear. Drops caught by idle hands. Those on their knees asking why. Why didn't we know he felt so low?

In a bottomless pit where scratches turn to broken fingernails.

You beg for forgiveness from those you love true. Devil owns the mirror of you.

This is why I choose to say, "No, thanks."

Ba-bum.

© 2013 PL Fremmie

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Reviews

r. f. jordan

this is profound work that i must come back to later, so that it might get the type of review that it deserves. needless to say, perhaps, but i love the duality.