Concrete Angels by Jeremiah Walton

Fist fighting concrete angels
in narrow alleys of the soul.
Should be happier because of sadness
Let me preach joy and
when no ones looking
sneak sleeveless quickies
with her, Joy,
the abusive mother fucker,
insidious band-aid
serial killer, scab chewer.
The flying vision of literature
converted to a missing plane.
Plucking feathers
with pliers
till stomach empty
and there's no more puke to vomit.
Walking empty am streets
buried in mundane bullshit,
hopeless shovel screaming
about the angels,
and the mutilated wings.
Singing for freedom
to the tune of irony.
Sung myself a cage,
rattle the bars with
cigarettes and romantics.

Busted eyes,
open sores.
Busted love notes,
open road.

Apathy's frost settles.
At least rats in a maze have a goal.

Jeremiah Walton graduated high school in spring, 2013.  He is the founder of Nostrovia! Poetry, and works with UndergroundBooks. He writes at Gatsby's Abandoned Children.

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