This loaded
Gun of miseries
Is aimed at
Point blank
Range

Triggered
By hands
Of consequence
Which deem me
So unfit

Readying
Brutal death
From bullets
That travel
Slowly

Through flesh
I now consider
An extension
Of human
Guilt –

My evidence
Growing old
And pale
From long
Misusage

When choosing
This able body
To starve itself
Weak
With fear

And shattering will
Like bone
Blasted
By choice
Into pieces

Leaving more
Traces of failure
That drip
From a hurt
So red,

As damages
Build
Over time
Like clots of
Memories wasted

Thicker
Than crimson sacrifice
Which paint
Those walls
With loss

Garnering
Little shame
Or judgement
Beyond all
Reason

To prevent
Such true disaster
Of a life
That’s claimed
By itself.

Some ends
Are far more
Literal
Even if done
Unwilling

Physical
Though barely noticed
As they are
Just figments
Of speech.

– J. Pigno

The only fate
Worse
Than cursedness
Is being
Far too blessed

And owning such courage
To know this
While admitting
The rest
Have it rough,

As bearing
The rich kid’s burden
Was something
I learned
To live with

Each time
They were quick
To judge me
Without ever reading
My words –

For truth
Is never convincing
From materials
Built
For exchanges

But a spirit
Which rings eternally
From the echo
Of phrases
In ink,

When goods
Fall victim
To ages
Quicker than fiction
Grows heavenly

Upon eyes
Of readers interpreting
Those verses
As tangible
Chance

Denying money
For substance
And the problems
It turns
Into privilege

By sharing
What hopes I imagine
Are divisible
Equally
With God.

– J. Pigno