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  • I Am Forgotten

     

     

    Ink shots in main vein arteries.

    Crimson blood driven black to fill the page.

    My whimsical lies are always silent to the sun.

    No man remembers my bloody first encounter

    When ink became my vessel,

    When paper became the right to commit ritual,

    When fire burned the world black.

    No one remembers.

    No one remembers the silent ticking clock that chimed its way past forever.

    I am forgotten.

    Forgotten to cheap plastic bags by wayside dumpsters

     I am forgotten.

     Forgotten by women who once called me home.

    We slipped behind dark garbage cans on Sunday nights

    Dancing with the Devil.

    Call God cause his line just went down.

    He lost another one.

    Lost another virgin that promised him her name.

    His tone was morose and complicated

    Jammed against the guttural angst of a mad generation.

     Grunting heaves were issued from rocking old vans,

    Sweaty windows became the emblem of late night fun,

    Do you remember?

    We played games with fire sticks that burned smoke to our lungs

     Middle finger tirades accused thoughtless old ladies

    Gimmick side shows instituted our remembrance.

    Sometimes we silently jumped rails

    But not often.

    Too often we drank hard.

    Drank hard shattered white ice liquid that made num a new word.

     We burnt down the flag.

    Burnt down the people.

    The Nation that left us for dead.

    A generation of hapless misfits.

     Chronological clown carnies with shoes too small.

    We made our homes in the lofting shining stars of plastic fiber Christmas trees.

    If you look closely you can still see us smirking through the sparkle.

    We stole.

    Stole hats, books, and cigarettes.

    We stole.

    Stole innocence, hope, and salvation.

    They don’t know our names because we’re dead.

    They don’t know our names because we lived to fast. They don’t know our names because we thought to slow.

    They don’t know our names because we’re gone.

    We’re dead.

    We’re gone.

    But our poetry still rings like a crooked smile down sideway streets.

    About The Author

    William Bretton Hodge

    William Bretton Hodge lives in Indianapolis Indiana, and recently graduated from Mount Vernon High School. He is unsure of which university to attend, but plans to major in creative writing. Mr. Hodge spends his spare time writing and looking for employment.