Winning Hand

I just wrote this poem in about 7 minutes. I was pretty surprised, myself. I mean it's kinda long. I guess it is what the fabulous mean girls would call "word vomit." It's in progress still. I guess it was my pathetic attempt at slam poetry. It just kinda came to me, and I couldn't stop writing. So, I may change it from time to time. I've tentatively called it "Winning Hand."

Your hug, your embrace
As I gently nestle with my face-
-ing a bosom of unknown, unseen
misguided, divided, abused
alienation. A closet nation
tucked into a corner of a room
even the hired help wouldn't dare enter-
-taining the thought of losing
what I love most kills me-
me who doesn’t even know its own definition,
singing a new rendition of the national anthem
Oh say can you see fit to give a damn?
By the dawn’s early light-
-ing a fire of cynicism, bitter rebellion erupting in a cataclysm
so well predetermined, Uncle Sam can only smile in approval.

Where does one turn?
World rife with scorn, only a few helping hands,
those who bother to take on the cause
for all the right reasons
in all the convenient seasons,
earning their degrees in
"charity masturbation"

Where do I fit in to this predestination?
this cultural fabric, a patchwork design of
carefully manipulated tactics to keep the rich rich,
the poor on their knees, few of us with high degrees
elevating fees so insurmountable,
the cost of happiness and satisfaction leaves one up to
no good in debt. We lie, cheat, steal
our way to get what we all should have-
worn the blue tie today instead of the red one,
I’m up for that promotion from minimum wage to
A more desirable page in the scripted “American” Ideal-
I deal with too much shit in one day.
I deal in the business of destroying the Ideal-
-ism is something I dreamt of once

I’m silent but screaming right where I stand-
up and be counted among the nameless, faceless
masses waiting for a pathetic handout-
of time, out of energy, shit out of luck.
This race only stops when we erase the embrace of race-
-ial institutions and ill-formed constitutions
feigning protection and so-called guarantees.
Guarantee me my goddamned respect.
Guarantee me my fucking acres, I can let the mule slide.
Guarantee me his glance in my direction.
Guarantee me a life free of disappointment-
Not mine, hers, the life I actually care about-
face! Make a change! March on to freedom!
Although, the broken backs and footsteps will never stop-
sign. Staring into a dead - end – construction here –
you go sir, one heaping helping of “label A + label B,
dash of C and some D equals E –qual opportunity
if you can afford the price of gaining nothing, but losing everything…

so fricken deep, kiddies *snaps*