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survival
anger
that never ending gift given to you
by a father that never loved you
a mother that cries herself to sleep
each night recounting all her mistakes
and there you are
twiddling your thumbs as the world burns
so lost so depressed so over anyone giving
two shits about anything anymore
you notice the burn holes in the carpet
that first time the needle breaks the
skin
chasing demons since a child meant for
better things
no one caught the signs of trouble or
better yet, no one cared
the beauty of the wrong side of the tracks
is survival is the only fucking goal even
worth living for
you would think growing up in the suburbs
would give you a wider plate to choose
from
but if you don’t fall for their bullshit
survival is the only goal there as well
love is never allowed to exist
i remember an old acoustic guitar and
a high school crush that wasn’t impressed
with any of the songs about her
that first night drinking myself to death
under the bridge only to wake up and
walk a few miles home
they never tell you the weird kids never
end up happy
i guess we’re supposed to kill ourselves
long before middle age creeps in
or just snap out of it and learn to fucking
conform
suit and tie, good paying job, picket fence,
wife, kids, all the trappings of this society
i had a woman ask me why i decided
to be a poet
i told her i was attracted to the thought
i would never have any money until
i was dead
you would have thought i said my dream
was to have an extra testicle or marry
a fucking alien
yet here i am
knocking my head against all the same
damn walls from thirty fucking years ago
some would say i’m a glutton for
punishment
others would understand the need for
pain in a life where love is never
allowed to exist
in a public square
i’m too old to
believe in a
better tomorrow
the war was lost
the dreams were
trampled in a
public square
the sun now only
rises in a casual
way
love is a fleeting
moment over
expensive coffee
while endlessly
plotting evil shit
on a cellphone
a little something
to get you up
and then a little
something to bring
you back down
somewhere
a young child just
discovered coltrane
and the first thing he
saw on google was
something about
heroin
the cycle never ends
when madness is all
we know
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in the suburbs, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, and Jellyfish Whispers. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, Evil Delights.