not poets,
but initiators.
not creators,
but destroyers.
not lovers,
but believers.
not philosophers,
but failures.
not dead,
but dying.
and definitely
alternate beings.
and new-aged disciples.
and schizos mumbling to allah
in a manhattan suburb,
trapped inside golden gates.
and psychopaths
contemplating existence,
believing they saw jesus
in a jail cell
or a crack house.
and addicts searching for needles,
bleeding and crying and shooting up,
banging on typewriters throughout the night.
and realists contemplating suicide,
creating manifestos and encyclopedias,
confined by society's stigmas.
and niggers burning confederate flags
dodging klan members
and double-barrel rifles
in the black of a hot deep-south summer night.
and racists plotting genocides
reveling in the hatred of defeat
dying for redemption.
not poets,
but faceless wallflowers,
buried underneath all of your dirt.
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