None
Would dare admire
The man
Whose work
Is words

If his phrases
Turn their profit
By accepting
Praise
As cash

Since intention
To be heard
Is indecent
Though it
Wishes

All attention
Wasn’t fickle
If still focused
On that
Craft

Staying pure
But left obscene
Like depictions
From his
Being

Showing signs
Of certain weakness
When expressing
Fear
In debt

At conveying
Richest truths
Without proof
Some writers
Suffer

Lining pockets
While intending
Every term
Provide them
Joy

Despite starving
Among lines
Seeking meaning
Not so
Meager

Finding short
And lowly verses
Last forever
If they’re
Poor.

– J. Pigno

Each word
Is another disease
Of a weak
And different strain
Which thrives
Not upon its victim
But the fact
Of his mortal
Death

By instilling
Germs as fear
With their threat
A life inside him
Like this home
An easy killer
Slowly sipping
Blood
Through trust

Eating faith
On empty tanks
Craving nothing
But obsession
Towards expressing
Verses waiting
For that turn
Which never
Speaks

What comes after
Breath has passed
Far beyond
Whose phrases matter
To such bodies
Left uneasy
Dying slowly
While they
Say

Every answer
Lost in flesh
Gone from feeling
Certain pleasure
At ignoring
Untold sickness
Giving art
Its only
Chance.

– J. Pigno

I believe
We reach some place
Where divinity
Feels inherent
To what rhythm
Carries sunlight
Within nature
Caught as beats

Seeking tunes
Beyond our means
Of expressions
Rarely mustered
Waiting lifetimes
For this reason
Best relayed
Through heaven’s song

As it captures
Fleeting drums
Playing always
To such deafness
Which is noise
Instead of hearing
Pleasant sound
That’s never clear

Lost inside
Our deepest cries
Amid static
Gaining focus
While we suffer
Ringing eardrums
At the cost
Of music missed

When all racket
Is one curse
Making discord
Daily penance
For these sins
Forgetting ballads
Linger softly
Upon air

Between moments
Standing still
Among babble
Hiding secrets
While each melody
Proves existence
Is harmonious
In itself

Roaring anthems
Breaking fears
By distractions
So miraculous
These old carols
Stirring passions
Swear new lyrics
Since their birth

After heeding
Perfect chants
Of God’s vocals
Bearing witness
With His gifts
Engaging worship
Understood
Like purest faith.

– J. Pigno

This mirror
Shows no man
But the foggy face
He exhibits
As a suffering form
That is empty
Like one plume of smoke
Taking shape

Where fear
Assumes its place
Dispersed
Through widening distance
Between
Such dark reflections
Within his image
Vast

Containing
Missing links
Across each chain
Now loosened
From feelings
Effectively handled
By inflicting pain
On himself

So existence
Surely rigged
Wields expression
Hardly noticed
When controlling
These emotions
Barely veiling
Naked threats

Called resistance
Begging change
Failing hard
At making struggles
Even different
In the slightest
Knowing trying
Wasn’t hard

While ignoring
Broken masks
Splitting smiles
Into pieces
Like each shard
Another grimace
Left confessing
Their defense

Against wrongs
They can’t admit
Are demanding
Worthy penance
Over decades
Spanning moments
Waiting madly
For their breath

Beyond clouds
Or vapid mists
Puffing lifetimes
Out of vapors
Proving lungs
Are holding nothing
But thin air
Which never lasts.

– J. Pigno

It’s time I do
Confess
How confined
My thoughts
Remain

To the point
Where words tell
Little
Like syllables
Strung like stones

Around
This neck
Submerged
Beneath what life
Still struggles

Below
Such depths
Apparent
To swallow waves
In gulps

While losing air
So fast
There is no
Chance
For breathing

Beyond
Some uttered
Finish
Of a protest
Made from sound

Or death
Considered fair
When noise
Has zero
Meaning

As purpose
Loses semblance
Through phrases
Said
Too much

Which speak
One final claim
Convinced
No point
Is proven

Since endings
Writing volumes
Exceed
Those broken
Means

Defeating
Poems lost
Before
My pen
Can finish

The dream
I never started
Staying idle
All these
Years

Becoming
Numb as hands
Whose fingers
Long
For movement

As this silence
Begs for mercy
Now demanding
I stay
Heard

If admitting
True defeat
At the hands
Of staunch
Expression

Leading men
So fucking desperate
Down her pathways
Laced
With guilt

By this muse
Who always hurts
Just enough
To foster
Vision

Using tension
As that leverage
Having madness
Be my
Noose

Above wishes
Unfulfilled
Like such tight
And winded
Cable

Swinging heavy
Over mornings
Lacking courage
To stand
Tall

Knowing day
Resembles pain
Within verse
So damn
Inspired

Growing lethal
Before stealing
What small hope
I may have
Left.

– J. Pigno

If in fact
There’s black
At the end
Of what we
Suffer

I’ll gladly
Paint my absence
Where life
Did once
Take shape

And assume
No plan exists
Even though
Some traces
Linger

Within spaces
Losing meaning
Like these feelings
Vast
And gray

Simply called
Our colored dream
Which allows
Each mind
Assurance

How those perfect lines
Incarnate
Should reveal
This canvas
Bare

Just waiting
For its shade
Of thick darkness
Come
With brushes

Held intently
Drawing figures
By old hands
Whose faith
Is pale

Without semblance
Or strong grip
Making pictures
Out of
Nothing

While instead
Revealing shadows
As the fate
I’ve always
Known

Hiding God
Beneath their smudge
Between hues
He calls
Division

Fallen victim
To that spectrum
Proving brightness
Is not
Real

But inspired
Using love
As excuses
We can’t
Picture

Like religion
If assuming
There are tints
Beyond
This death.

– J. Pigno

Before
You mock that man
Whose canvas
Is his hatred
Assess those paints
Of kindness
On your palette
Left untouched

To cure
Such jagged lines
Drawing madness
Losing vision
Lacking shape
From understanding
Missing clearly
Within frame

Blending colors
Hiding flaws
Dabbing softly
Over blotches
Far too bold
For mere corrections
Gently smudging
Mingled woes

Where our rage
Becomes consistent
When resembling
Their frustrations
Like each need
Without compassion
Showing signs
Of human ills

Tossing glitter
Among stains
Building quickly
Off these brushes
Caking dyes
In gruesome excess
Across portraits
Truly dark

Tinted plainly
By expression
Bearing nothing
But exclusion
And what lies
Our hope encounters
If ignoring
Withered souls

Sporting shades
Of lonely penchants
Amid spectrums
Brightly biased
Finding smiles
Mask their image
And reluctance
Obscures pain

Blurring fact
With slathered faith
Covered wholly
From obsession
Thickened daily
Gaining varnish
While we pity
Through neglect.

– J. Pigno