Bruce Wayne

O' Distant Dear

In ethereal dignity, floating up above,
With her everything, I am in love—
Her craters, her dusty surface, her dark side;
Her full shape and crescent, dim and bright,
Even her absence from sight.

Embalmed in the balsam of her warmth
And suffocating in the tight linen wrap of her charm,
Me heart is sealed inside the sarcophagus in the pyramid of worship,
Sustained by the mythical crimson wine flowing out of her lips.

Right under her tranquil glance,
On the translucent altar I birthed my true countenance
In reverence to her sublime heavenly presence,
But since the inception of time, my insignificance
Has aborted the fetus of romance.

Out of my grasp, O' distant unrequited dear
Who graces my heart with peace and thrill.
I wish upon the stars that you were here
And together we'd lullaby the night that's still.

A good liar believes in his own lie. He becomes one with it. Embraces it. Sticks with it. The ability to craft a masterful lie is a beautiful art.

The Food Problem

"What am I going to eat now?"
Asks the rich, for he has an abundance
Of food choices—he's been spending
Half an hour scrolling down the culinary app,
Salivating on the sight of the appetizing meats and snacks.
Some days he'd repeat the same thought process
While studying the menu at a restaurant.

"What am I going to eat now?"
Asks the poor, for he has none.
He then proceeds to scour the trash can
At the back of the restaurant.
The sight of the leftover chicken makes him drool—
Not much of the meat left, but it's better than yesterday.

"I'm thankful for what I'm having."
Says the modest. He then continues to pray
Before consuming the simple dinner he can afford that day—
No thought to complain for he has known
The taste of meatless bones
He found inside the garbage bin
At the back of the local fast-food chain.

The Owl's Lament

In the day time
When the sun shines
The owl cries
Amidst the crowd of mice
For he longs for the night
To arrive and bring his light,
The moon that shines bright.
Night time means life,
Day time his soul dies;
The moon revives
The bird's silent flight.
Such as the cycle of life
For the winged selenophile.

But summer time
He never likes
For the sun shines
Even in night time,
Robbing him off the delight
From the lunar's tender light.

And summer time
Has now arrived.

One of my favorite poems.

Daddy
By Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Deny, Defend, Depose!

Laugh and cheer echo throughout the realm.
Everyone from every side is hand in hand in a celebration so overwhelm
In the wake of the disposal
Of an ugly, disgusting monster loathed so universal.

A lone assassin traversed the night to fight evils,
In his hand a lethal device containing 9 mm sleeping pills
To be gifted to the greedy demon pig walked on the sidewalk,
Who would soon be surrounded by the constabulary's chalk.

Playing god on insurance health,
Wretched entity in charge of the common folks' life and death.
The capitalist demon pig feasted on the people's suffering,
Laughing horrendously while saving and investing.

Amassing fortune off people's misfortune,
The corrupt institution had the public's anger cocooned.
Flowers are wilting and dying in all parts of nation,
While the rust keeps spreading throughout the population.

The demon boss pig laughed, laughed, and laughed,
Bathing himself in people's tears on greed's behalf.
His wheel of crime would soon cease to turn, though,
In the arrival of a butterfly emerged out of the cocoon—a common folks' hero.

Now the pig is six feet under the dark, cold ground,
Though his death is nothing compared to the people he'd downed
For he was spared of pain and torment,
And he felt no misery not a single moment.

He who delayed paying the customers' insurance claims,
Who denied in whole or in part said claims,
And who defended his own wickedness
Is now reduced to mere nothingness

In the hands of the angel who realized the public's sincere wish
To deny the devil any more privilege to exist.
Though one covetous villain has been deposed,
Many more are still causing woes.

But the capitalist ruling class are now shivering in terror
For the assassin is feared to be a trendsetter
Who would inspire many more heroes
To arise and stop their dirty blood flow.

And may the brave soldier who has stood up
For the people knows that he is loved
And be safe and sound in his retreat.
And let his mighty feat
Be a haunting nightmare for the filthy capitalist elites!

***

(Check comment for context of this poem).

When the poor steals, it's a crime. But when the rich does it, it's "business practice".

The worst part of trying to improve yourself is the memories of your past self haunting you. No matter how good you've become you are constantly reminded that you used to be pretty bad. It takes a long time to escape from this torment.