Manhunt

I never thought I'd slip this hard.

 

I ignore myself like the middle class ignores the homeless.
     Of course I don't have two dollars; I don't even have the time.
                                        Sipping privilege out of Napoleon bottles,
                              Slipping privilege into Styrofoam;
      Dreaming of recycling.

 

Apathy is defined as a lack of interest;
                                         Empathy is defined as normalcy.

 

Apathy is running down train tracks until shoes fly off,
            burying yourself in rebar and mumbling the words to prayers.    

                                                                                    Your parents taught you well.

 

The same parents ignore the homeless; now used to their privilege.
                               they're the ones that chased the chasers away.

 

If Nihilism is learned behavior, whose to say God isn't?
     Scrambling to find order in the thoughts our memories give us,
                                                                                                              rushing,
ping even,
suiciding our identities to make room for the words written on pages more outdated than patriarchy.
                                        sounds familiar;
         nostalgia kicks in harder than the cigarettes we smoke to forget we're smoking.
It's easier than it looks, just a little rough on the lumps that build in throats.

 

By sheer force of will you take the steps to the funeral.
     Like the cigarettes: you kick,
                    but your parents force you out, and again like the cigarettes:
your whines burns out.
                             
                                                       Cursing yourself for being just late enough to see the casket close;
                                   you'll thank yourself eventually.

You probably wouldnt've even been able to recognize yourself.

 

                                                 Not in that suit.
                                 Not in those shoes.

 

God's not dead he's just hiding.
     I should know because I've found him:
           in the bottom of bottles I was never supposed to see;
               in the ashes of the Perique I burn to stop shaking;

 

I found God in you; I looked the other way so I didn't have to be the one
                     to end the game.

 

But we'll never stop playing:
      round and round till we lose our minds,
round and round till we don't care either way.
                   
I still hear your voice sometimes;
                                   and even I can't spin enough to stop the words from coming out.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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