A boy spends half his life fighting

to find what makes a man,

the other half selling it.

He’s wasting.

Big MAN.

Small MAN.

Fat MAN.

Skinny MAN.

Skin and Bones; Lipids and Sarcomeres.

All red and black inside.

And the harpies, the kickers, the needy of life

with their half-made threats and empty anguish

broken, ragged nails screech

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

like chalk on steel streets.

Crawling through his past,

slinking between alleys and floating behind

out of sight,

His flitting shadows

seek stories that match

their smiles, tight,

with false teeth gleaming Fool’s

Gold hidden to Him desirous

Of life, liberty, and love.

Hunted with knives

between alleys,

caught with nooses

tied around his neck,

dragged to zoos

where he roars and rages like the starving lion, unknowing

that he’s not Samson,

though his hair’s grown and the

neon proclaims him Lord, the exotic man-eating monster,

cowering in his corner.

He is the Old Maid’s washcloth.

When he rasps, hope flees and withered heart

rattles between his ribs

excised, packaged and sent to the fires.

Steel snakes bite wrists,

whipped till blood sobs.

Scabs and scars weeping

crown his skull.

Hung by rope.

Feet wave in air.

Salvation found in accepting pain.