Black sludge, drips from the pen, onto the canvas.

Daily words 03.05

paint it black
now darker.
This is a painting with no colors,
only depth.

backs hurt and bottles broken.
Words used like weapons,
but they can't stop the war.
As they fall upon deaf ears.

The cockroaches are the ones who survive the bombs.
They greedily swarm the defecated lands.
But I don't think they give anything back to it.

"So you want to be a writer?
Then what is your cause?"
You don't just climb on top that podium,
just for the applause.

I'm standing on the rooftop, ready to fall.
All my compassion has dried from my tear glands,
I feel like I have no empathy left to give.
I invited the world into my heart,
it stabbed me and stole my wallet.

I'm standing on the rafters, where I give an echoing applause,
to your four words strung together, over the course of a month drinking.
The silence, when I grab the microphone, has my heart sinking.
It might have taken me less then half an hour,
but I'm standing here with a written part of my soul exposed.

Help?!
I'm a social warrior on Tumblr, but nobody takes my causes serious
and my head-mates are telling me, it's because I'm backing the wrong team.
But isn't a starving thin white man more privileged then a fat black woman?

Funny how nobody feels grateful to be alive,
not even if they are born with a golden spoon in their mouth.
Probably because tiffany's parents fed her daughter,
with a spoon made platinum engraved with crystals and because she got the Iphone5,
3 days before me.

Timmy is also an ungrateful whiner, it's not our fault you get bullied over those shoes.
They're worn out and ugly.
Why don't you just ask your alcoholic father for some new ones.
Just make sure you hide his belt and take five steps back, so you can have a running start.

Last time I called you all suckers at the end of my poem and everybody laughed,
at how I dared to call my own mother a Christian whore.
I'm sorry for being so inconsiderate last time,
it won't happen any more.