If you must gift me something

Gift me wings

To help me fly away

From all the material things

A black cat with a tinge of gray

Crossed my tracks yesterday

It was anything but unlucky

For she helped the writer in me

A poem is not a reflection

Of the poet or his thinking

The poet, while, is a shadow

Of the poem that he’s drinking

He is merely a medium

Between the poem and the page

To flung the doors wide open

Of the concealed cage

For every man who pleasures
There is a man who pains
For every man who loses
There is a man who gains
Yet all of them they pray
Pray in the good Lord’s name
Yet he treats us different
Yet he treats us unsame

Open that bottle of fury

Sealed with Vengeance’s lips

Demonstrate to the world

What anger really is

How many tears make an ocean?

How many dreams; a trash can?

How many thoughts make a notion?

How many wrongs; a wise man?

Why does it pain when I bleed?

Why can’t it just tickle?

Who, the laws of nature, agreed

To let them be unfickle?

Did a mighty, and just being

Create pain, unhappiness

Sat forth in the skies then seeing

The laws’s steadiness?