Some that I thought of revisiting for publication were pretty... frightening? Good shit though (to my twisted ass anyway). Anyway, I found this one and thought I'd occasionally do a revisited classic. This is a strange piece to have been authored by "DarkGarden;" where usually works such as this were penned by "Mr. Nick."
So, for your poetic enjoyment, I present:
Hey Buddy! Got a Cigarette?
Met the lonely man,
Scarred from chest to his cock.
So many nameless operations.
Body a battlefield.
They cut him over and over,
Each time take more and more.
Take some gut,
Take some disease,
And each time lose a little more
Of what that person was.
Little more of that supporting
Soul slips away.
Like a gas under pressure.
Hissing leak.
Contents escape into space.
He was proud once.
He was mighty once.
Children sang and played about him.
Weathered and quickly aging.
A little more of
That soul slips away.
Paranoid and bent.
Wanting someone to understand.
Wanting someone to listen.
His every step, now, is labored;
Where once it bounced lightly.
Begging for cigarettes
Smoked in stained and colorless shorts.
Tell him not to smoke inside.
A little more of
That soul slips away.
Trying to remain tough
Trying to save face.
Picked on.
Trodden on.
Sipping on an old coffee
From a Styrofoam cup.
And every moment
Trying to forget the man he was.
Another veteran from some forgotten war,
A proud father of four.
But no one cares now, brother.
Things move fast now,
And we have no time for past.
A little more of
That soul slips away.
I saw them carry his body away.
Then I looked across the street where
Someone carried some trash to the curb.
I gazed at both scenes as one.
They looked the same.
They laid him out cheaply,
Just down the street.
I walked inside.
I don’t know why.
Several dusty people roamed about.
I searched around a bit for an answer.
There was none.
There was silence.
I walked back home,
A little more bent and a little slower.
A little more of
My soul slipping away.
-Dark Garden
Smoked in stained and colorless shorts.
Tell him not to smoke inside.
A little more of
That soul slips away.
Trying to remain tough
Trying to save face.
Picked on.
Trodden on.
Sipping on an old coffee
From a Styrofoam cup.
And every moment
Trying to forget the man he was.
Another veteran from some forgotten war,
A proud father of four.
But no one cares now, brother.
Things move fast now,
And we have no time for past.
A little more of
That soul slips away.
I saw them carry his body away.
Then I looked across the street where
Someone carried some trash to the curb.
I gazed at both scenes as one.
They looked the same.
They laid him out cheaply,
Just down the street.
I walked inside.
I don’t know why.
Several dusty people roamed about.
I searched around a bit for an answer.
There was none.
There was silence.
I walked back home,
A little more bent and a little slower.
A little more of
My soul slipping away.
-Dark Garden
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