Hi, this is my poem.
Hi, this is my poverty.
What’s that?
My poverty.
The poem and my poverty shake hands.
Everyone ignores my trauma.
I go over to my trauma,
start talking to it.
It tells me about a helicopter on fire.
I tell my trauma I can’t talk about that.
I got hypnotized to not be able to remember that.
My trauma gets quiet.
My poverty walks over.
My poverty is drunk.
My poverty wants a ride home.
I realized one night,
like this thunderbolt,
that I’ve lived in a horror movie.
I wondered my genre
and realized it’s horror.
It’s because of all the blood.
From the prison
and the military
and football
and the self-mutilation
and the EMT gigs
and the security gigs
and then the blood
comes over
and the blood is loud,
alpha loud.
I hate all alphas.
They destroy the world.

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