Really
I’m not worth much
But a show
Of empty fingers
And palms face up
So telling
Of hands too cold
To feel

This broken brand
Of sad
In spirit but also
Reason
Where loss
That matters greatly
Is just my kind
Of hurt

When roads
I walk to work
Are chessboards
Of disaster
Waiting now
To happen
Each time
I cross this street

Imagining
Easy outs
Or playing fate
With stoplights
As the morning
Gives no answer
Or truth
I care to seek

Wandering
Into traffic
Or staring down
These buses
Which tell me
Keeping purpose
Is a useless task
For chumps

The ones
Who can’t believe
This all might be
Called nothing
To a God
Who dangles pleasures
Along lines
Of give and takes

And run me down
So bold
Without even
Having questions
Of a life
They’d take regardless
If the car had hit
Or not

To prove
It’s just some game
Beyond
What man can measure
Or control
Within these senses
Limited
As his scope

While the wind
Just seems to pass
And carries me
Even further
Toward a dream
That’s unrelenting
And impossible
As that gift

Shaking off
This dust
From the filth
Of city mornings
And urban lie
Called order
Peddled
Like special dirt

Allowing
One more chance
For seconds
Becoming minutes
Over hours
Eaten slowly
To make prisoners
Of us all

Forgetting
Partial deaths
Or suicides
Called commuting
Are miracles
Begging difference
And rebellion
From this lie

Though to most
I’m just a nut
Or a “fag”
With no ambitions
Scared of
Growing older
And alone
As well deserved

Wishing
Art was proof
That vehicles
And their dangers
Are conquered
By my visions
And desire
To break free

Though I hope
It just can change
As much as prayer
Is futile
Or evidence
Of conviction
Among desperate hearts
Who wait

Hollow
As I am
During bouts
Of sheer depression
Staring at
Angry drivers
I believe
Know more than me.

– J. Pigno