It’s Friday night—I scramble in my medicine cabinet
For some Motrin to munch on. I feel like swallowing
The whole damn bottle and waving good riddance
To the glitz and glamour of this bullshit that devours my sanity.
Nagging Mother, Father and all your expectations,
You can all have my defeated carcass if you want it.
In fact, you can even invite my most antagonistic protesters
To stand over my open casket and spit in it!
Then you all can share a sinister laugh of approval
In unison as you strut your gutless asses away.
Au revoir, finally, to the glitz and the glamour
Of this bullshit that keeps surrounding me
Like a greenhouse effect of perpetually draining poison.
I only wish I hadn’t unleashed my anger
Out on that defenseless, hallow door.
I don’t want to be that guy—but he does reside
At the pits of my existence—I assure you that much!
It should have been his face.
Yes! Yes! This realization rings true now.
The Motrin has awakened me rudely,
Just like that faithful day when my doorbell rang
And he stood on my front porch, a salesman
Selling some shitty dreams in an old ass briefcase.
Writing as BLACK ANGEL
2011 By Charles Banks, Jr.