There is nothing
Remotely masculine
About this way
I bleed

After years
Of nearly risking
Myself
For the cost of sex

In ways
Such soul convicts
My mind for
Sacred pleasures

From lives which
Hurt me greatly
When pursuing
Fates not earned

Those girls
I longed to need
Without real means
Or substance

Genuine
But hardly capable
As the men
Who hold them now

While I strive
To soon forget
What pain
Deters my feelings

Each day
This future crumbles
Between fists
Of wrenching guilt

Tightened
With that grip
Assuring how
I’m unworthy

And convincing enough
Through memory
To assume
Such fate is sealed

As the days
Come flooding back
Where you left me
On that doorstep

Or weddings
Spent in bathrooms
Crying
At tables alone

Writing
Frantic verse
To keep up
With my rages

From knowledge
Of such destiny
To bear this burden
Whole

Aware
I’m just some boy
Stuck inside
These stories

My games
My colored pages
With heroes
Who give me hope

Running
Always scared
Fearful
Death is waiting

At the end
Of every sentence
I finish
Before his chance

Far from
Being ready
To tie this heart
Unwilling

Eternally
As expected
For a girl
Who brings me joy

As I’ve yet
To go and find
One person
Of such rearing

Tolerant
Of my frailties
And inspiring
True belief

But today
I think I see
My blue
Is turning pinkish

My walls
A different color
Than the ones
Which broke me down

For perhaps
I’m more in tune
As a sister
Of these muses

Soft
Immensely passionate
Nurturing
Burning needs

To create
And birth these words
Through expressions
Unrelenting

As the gender
Of my betters
More beautiful
And divine.

– J. Pigno

Let these words
Be bullets of God
As I shoot my truths
From the hip

Spraying
That painted vengeance
With damages
Across this soul

Unleashing
A spoken fury
Like shells
Of loaded phrases

Ready
To conquer demons
By combat
Known as prose

Verses
Meant to lift
By affirming fate
Through action

Demanding
Simple pleasures
Which pull this trigger
Quick

To inspire
Poems grand
Or eternities
Briefly stated

Where love
Is wounded genius
Of a humble hurt
Which stings

Like art
As weaponized choice
Of the freedoms
Left inherent

By divinity
Whose expression
Was extension
Of that need

To grow
And feel redeemed
As unities
Lacking question

On a canvas
Now exploding
With colors
Made for joy

In language
Bloody red
From human tongues
Of fire

That spell
Their fading image
With an urgent
Sense of bliss –

Angry
Nothing lasts
As periods
Trail each sentence

Chasing
Tragic endings
Without ever
Knowing why.

– J. Pigno

To think that
All of this time
I should have been
Asking myself

Perhaps
The reason I’m single
Is because she’s
Better than me –

For what
Have I really secured
To earn such love
From a woman

When writing
A few weak phrases
And calling them
Art with a cause?

As poetry
Isn’t some gift
But the job
Of heaven almighty –

A calling
Which can be serious
If honoring God
Through your voice,

For money
Isn’t its bliss
Or message
Of written salvation

And that’s hardly
Deserving of safeties
Or a chance
At making her swoon.

For she needs
You to offer her life
And not such fear
Of resentment

Like miseries
Born of this talent
Which follow hurt
Where they must,

Deep into pits
Of regret
And tragedies
Born from distinctions

Amassed
As failures witnessed
To better relate
Through our words.

So before
Growing easily mad
And questioning
“Why am I lonely?”

Peer within
At those demons
And realize
It’s better to wait

Than jumping
Headfirst into hate
Or pounding on doors
For an answer

Accepting these locks
Are a blessing
Many
Would rather not see.

– J. Pigno

These simple
And faultless lies
Are spun from
Precious treasons
I commit in defense
Of villainy
On behalf of hate
Towards myself

Believing
Careless truths
By wearing veils
Unnatural
So the effort
Of feigning interest
Is work enough
To deceive

What fate
Describes in chance
As the hour
Of fallen pillars
When palaces
Made of answers
Crumble quick
Under weighted dreams

Like ploys
Of heaviest stone
Cracking walls
With daily pressures
And tearing holes
Beneath me
Till the floor
Gives out below

When empathy
Precedes death
As its faulty
Motivation
To maintain hope
By praying
Destruction
Has no cost

But the cure
Of raging souls
Which tremble much
From quaking
As sand
Between their footings
Shifts fast
And calls that bluff

Demolishing
Every inch
Of freedom
Built for changing
Where gold
Along this shadow
Outlines
Empty space

Proving
Words unread
Are the hurt
I’ve always needed
To redeem
My conquered riches
Like castles
Left for dirt

Kingdoms
Once unearthed
By daring feats
And martyrs
With excuses
Made exceptions
For the sake
Of keeping sane

Abandoned
As they lay
Now overgrown
And victim
To my fear
Of being useful
As I know
I’m always not.

– J. Pigno

Our penchant
For mortal weakness
Is the way
All futures end

Knowing things
Left defeated
Are preserved
As living gods

Like tales we mold
As victims
And narratives
Shaped together

Out of remnants
Lost to heresay
Or religions
Carved from stone

Tragic
But never real
When discovered
In ashen ruins

Among heroes
Supposedly worshipped
Made of marble
Or broken clay

As pasts
Are dangrous visions
Of potentials
Often wasted

Enabling
Prior chapters
To glorify
Certain themes

Repeating
What determines
These trails
Of fallen pillars

Achieving
Almost nothing
But a memory
Left to brag –

Wrong
Though easily missed
By men
Who have no wishes

But to leave
Their written legacies
Behind
As fading masks

And marks
Worth being etched
If only where
Few can see them

Like wreckage
Caught from history
Stuck within
Present tense

Where walls
Which bear their semblance
Are bound
To nearly crumble

And conceal
Such painted burdens
Under bricks
Of heaviest grief

Sad as it is
To say
That their triumph
Is our undoing

Building worlds
From pieces
When the rest
Are dead and gone.

– J. Pigno

Another day
Left in
Suspense

When waiting
Is silent
Commotion

Ushering
Such quiet
Distress

With whispers
Of doubt
On my mind –

Begging
Each sun
For a glance

So moons
Come quick
To reveal them

By terror
Of night
Which I gather

Is a waste
Of my time
If at best,

Clinging
This phone
Off the hook

Or wallowing
Idle
From sleepiness

Caught
At tips
Near my fingers

Which speak
Through keys
Out of spite.

Typing
This much needed
Rest

With limited
Means
Of expression

And words
Too many
To gather

Or remember
With hope
They are right –

As penance
Is always
So sad

Yet brutal
Where truth
Is its fiction

Of imagining
Outcomes
On paper

Where the answers
Are never
Enough.

– J. Pigno

We know
How this story
Concludes

Now it’s time
To write
The last sentence

Of a life
That was reared
In phrases

And remembered
So briefly
With words,

As others
Will hardly
Resist

Abiding
By lies
Less exclusive

Of interests
Common
And wasting

What talents
They may
Never seek –

Unlike
Dreams
Of my own

Which speak
As terms
Everlasting

From drudgery
Far less
Defining

Than the beauty
Of art
Meant to touch.

Beyond
How worlds
Do insist

We pursue
Such hurt
Detrimental

In packages
Deemed
Our successes

Or triumphs
As vain
As that choice

For delivering
Knives
As a gift

When inflicting
Wounds
By our message

That idleness
Packaged
As worship

Is the meaning
Our hearts
Do betray –

To find
That role
Worth a chance

And seeking
God
Within reason

Till the need
To feel
Becomes lethal

And expression
Martyrs
Our wills,

Binding fate
To our
Tales

As the legacy
Beckons
To kill us

Despite
Those smiles
We’re showing

As death
Begins
It’s approach.

No,
Im constantly
Saved

By the verse
Which still
Goes wnwritten

As I face
This blankness
Before me

Knowing faith
Is that period
End.

– J. Pigno

God
Changes space
But man
Uses knowledge
To leverage
Simple phrases
And tilt
His perfect Earth

Erecting
Minor heavens
From stone
He chooses wisely
Drawing fates
In marble
And erecting
Pillars weak

Expecting
Steady worlds
From the line
He draws unfinished
Which wobbles
Atop his daydream
Askwew
With fallen means

Twisting
Faultless strings
Of this tethered
Cosmic genius
Undone
At its center
When imagining
Better knots.

– J. Pigno

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

My fear
Of traumatic events
Is the gift
Which leads me
To them,

Bridging
What little leeway
Exists between
Panic
And death –

Keeping things
Very tense
And feeding
Such anxious
Feelings

No matter
How rare
Or infrequent
Each experience
Happens to be.

Making me
Lose my cool
And swerve
When driving
Erratic,

Believing this heart
To be failing
While begging
Thin air
For a breath.

Rushing
With fear
To stay calm
And checking my pulse
In this mirror,

Thinking that end
Is impatient
As color
Escapes
From my face.

Learning
I’m probably safe
If only
For the briefest
Of seconds,

So my pulse
Returns
To normal
And this ride
Resumes once more –

Forever
Into unknowns
And tomorrows
Beyond
Fair reasons

Or certainties
Left imbalanced
By the prospect
Of varying
Fates.

Mortal
Though hardly sane
For ones
Still willing
To witness

Such fleeting
And weak securities
Transient
And wrongly
Assumed.

– J. Pigno