The Injustice System
The injustice system
has a tendency
to turn victims
into criminals
God forbid
you defend
yourself
when the cops
aren't doing
their jobs
Misdemeanors
of passion
Finishing off a well
deserved beating
Blood on my hands
Self defence
is a crime
I had no other choice
I've made my
decision
Next thing I know
I'm guilty until
proven innocent
Labeled as
many things
Stripped
of my
so-called
white privilege
Wasting away
in a cold cell
Stale bologna
sandwich
Dreaming of
emancipation
Living a new
life experience
In my eyes
I've done the
right thing
Not like it matters
I'm still charged
with a felony
(Language warning: some offensive language may follow)
Writers Block
I've been fucking
like a teenager
Spewing cum
like a rock star
The winning
lottery ticket
is within my grasp
I can ditch
the title of loser
by society’s standard
Swapped my bus pass
for gallons of gas
More horses
than I can count
have enabled me
to move ahead
In the rearview
mirror is where
I used to reside
Good news
from the private eye
He's detained my mind
who I've lost long ago
Reconciliation
Saying goodbye
to the hiatus
Telling similar lies
to three
different women
all eager
for my attention
can often be
confusing
But at the end
of the day
after one too many
blowjobs
I've figured
some things out
Everything I thought
would bring me
complacency
Has sucked me
dry of all
the necessary juices
required to breed
a new generation
of taxpayers
and dissuade them
from leaping
off of bridges
The Answer To Writers Block
I retained my mind
after years of hiatus
in a indistinguishable
form of what it once was
This canvas is barren
I should feel elated
Living in this
social utopia
The meaning
is lost
No hurdle in sight
Except this dead end
way of thinking
One less asshole
provoking me
to violence
Fractured fingers
prohibit the writing
Chasing
my own shadow
Nostalgically speaking
Dialing 911
What's the emergency
No inspiration
An ideal time to smile
Who wants to have
more fun than me
If that was a possibility
This impediment
has superseded
the enthusiasm
I have for living
When the ink
has reached its limit
Dried up
like a sedated vagina
I'll scale the border
as I split this personality
Dismiss my women
Revert to masturbation
Drag a keen blade
up my wrist
in the shape
of a smile
and use this blood
to express
these belated feelings
Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his blog:www.thoughtsofapoeticmind.blogspot.com for his latest poetry and short stories.
A Hot Bath And Cold Razor Blades
I've skipped going to church on this Sunday morning. I see no point in
any of this anymore. Instead I chose to take a hot bath, one last hot bath. I'm
accompanied by a glass of cheap vodka, a single cigarette and a fresh set of
razor blades straight out the package. This is how the Romans used to do it. I
feel entitled to try it their way. After all, my name ends in a vowel.
Most men hate their fathers with a passion. For me it’s the
complete opposite. My father, God rest his soul, was the finest man I've ever
known. He had a revolutionary mindset. A reformist mentality. His dream, his
goal, was to make Pittsburgh a better place. This is no easy task when one man
is up against a capitalistic system that turns people into mindless consumers
only out for themselves.
He had a sacrificial philosophy. He always told me, we're all here to
help other people. All it takes is the swaying of a single zip code. After that
the rest will follow. Self delusion under the guise of good intentions.
I did my work accordingly, I followed the path of the righteous man.
Abstaining from sex, drugs and punk rock music became second nature to me. It
was for the benefit of all. This whole 'lead by example' thing didn't win me
any popularity contests, but someone had to do the opposite of the norm around
here if anything was to change. Frugal spending, no meat on Friday, tv only two
hours a day followed by excessive reading, mostly Hemingway, and church every
Sunday no matter what. No excuses.
I'd hand out self help pamphlets downtown every other day for three
hours straight. The literature was directly out of my father’s idealistic mind.
It taught people how to get back at the system by working less hours and
cutting down on spending, substantially. God is Jesus Christ almighty, not the
almighty dollar. The Pepsi challenge in my father’s eyes was fruitless when
capitalism breeds servitude, and coke obviously tastes better. Any typical
American moron knows that.
So I worked my twenty hour work week as I followed the doctrine.
Faygo pop and ramen noodles were my steady diet of vengeance against an unjust
system who took no prisoners unless you had enough finance to join the
bourgeoisie. Fuck that shit. I remained devoted, courteous and ready for
change. People will catch on sooner or later. Emancipation is a beautiful
thing.
The only thing that changed was my father’s actions. He met an
uptight cunt from Mt. Lebanon with a red Cadillac, bourgeois house and a visa
platinum credit card. She turned him into a green-eyed asshole. He stopped
writing his revolutionary literature and started shopping like a materialistic
maniac on her dime. Within a month he had his prude bitch of girlfriend
spending the night at our house almost every other day. Plus he amassed a shoe
collection that could rival that of foot locker.
The day he came home with his stuck up girlfriend and a brand new sixty
inch flat screen television is the day I challenged him on contradicting the
doctrine.
"Dad, what the are you doing?"
"What's it look like, son? I'm hooking up this new television
so we can all watch the Steelers game this Sunday."
"What about church, dad?"
"What about it? All God does is ignore me. I'd rather watch
football."
"Yeah," chimes in his stuck up girlfriend, "your father
deserves a break after all the hard, sacrificial work he's done in the past.
God can wait."
I point my index finger at her face and say, "You don't speak
about God in this house, you materialistic snob! You've turned my father into
one of them! How fucking dare you, bitch!"
My father in a futile attempt to diminish this volatile situation says,
"Can someone pass me a screwdriver?"
I look at him and say, "Fuck off dad! You're lucky I don't dropkick
that devilish piece of propaganda!"
His green eyed girlfriend disdainfully says, "Don't you speak to
your father in that tone, you little shit!"
I walk over to the anti-Christ with a vagina and say, "Get the fuck
out, you green eyed whore!"
She runs out the door whimpering. Ok. One less greedy asshole to contend
with. Now it’s time to finish this.
My father with his hands above his head in a state of apprehension says,
"You ungrateful little shit! That's not how you treat people! Don't you
remember the doctrine? We must remain courteous!"
"That was then old man, this is now! You changed, motherfucker! It
used to be us against them, now you're one of them! How's it feel to be on the
other side, dad?"
"I love Pepsi now just as much as I love coke. It's time to embrace
capitalism, and enjoy the options at its disposal."
"I thought it was servitude! I thought it makes people into callous
pieces of shit!"
"Yes, all that's true, but it also offers a dollar menu at
McDonald's and the time of your life at Wal-Mart. I'm hungry. Let's go to Taco
Bell."
That's when I lost all self control, screamed out, "Fuck Taco
bell," and tackled my father into his precious sixty inch flat screen
television. I heard his neck snap upon impact. Had he never became a turncoat
this would have never happened.
Crossing the tracks is for people crying out for help. It's an option
that holds no relevance in this bathtub right now. My goal is to permanently
eradicate the voices once and for all. Only the winners walk up the tracks. A
life well wasted is in fact a wasted life. All the primo drugs and vagina I've
passed on in the past is meaningless. I'll never know what's its like to live
like a true American. There's no turning back for me now. Especially when the
bath water is as red as the Republican Party.
