Gifts
Bring me your brokenhearted. The ones that wore,
everything on their sleeves, and found them tattered
and torn, before sunrise.
Bring me your weary. The ones wasted inside the ticks
of their clocks, lifeless within circles. Fabricated for “safety”.
Bring me the toothless. From bar fights and classroom
brawls. Glass and wood tucked in their skin, blood
trickling between broken knuckles.
Bring me the blue collars, and I’ll show you where
true character lies. Steady and compassionate
for every loss.
Fuck your Botox and your liposuction.
Bring me imperfect.
Fuck your teeth whiteners, and false sets.
Bring me broken.
Fuck your advertisements, and photoshopped bodies.
Bring me flawed.
Fuck your television, and Hollywood.
Bring me ugly.
I want to build upon the shores of driftwood and
lost visions. Where dreams and futures,
drowned themselves.
I want to show you beauty, in its purest form.
Not on the internet.
Not on Google.
Not on the television.
Not in a magazine.
Not on a silver screen.
But instead, just outside your fence
made of concrete and barbed wire, in
your backyard.
It’s on the ugly and forgotten where Wall Street
was built. Where the first brick was laid. Where
pride was found before money ran us all
into the ground.
We (the people) used to own it all.
Now, we own nothing.
