my hands won’t tell the stories

that they wrote between these lines

and eyes won’t shine the truth back

through the tears that will not dry

there is no embrace that tells my skin

not to bleed from well-placed shivs

there is no taste that washes out the flavor

of the words you give my lips

i cannot find the flight of stairs 

to run from all your well-meant lies

i cannot find a place to hide

to bide my idle, finite time

it is no wonder how you win these games

no wonder why we fail

it is no picture perfect pristine peace

presented in a tale

our differentiate, articulate

our souls cored out and poured

but consumerism’s cookie-cuts

bleed our ideals on the floor

so caving, giving blood each week

for meager sums of cash

i donate but i can no longer give

my love, my words, i dashed

thanks to you.

i’ll have that copy on your desk by morning, sir.