BITTER

BITTER

Bitter is my blackened heart, to ponder what’s at stake,
I drink the poison hungrily, it leaves an aftertaste.

What little I held to my breast as sacred and as true,
Dissolves into the setting sun, horizons gray that once were blue.

The bastards are mute, they choke on the words,
They cannot say for better or worse.

Their silence up and slaps my face,
And love, a sad, cheap real estate depreciates quickly.

Bitter is my wretched soul, issuing condemnation.
It leaves no room to wiggle, it demonstrates no levity,
It stagnates in the dirty pool of life in all its brevity.

The bastards go on with their dreaming,
Futures sure and brightly gleaming.

Sons of bitches dare to thrive and mock me in my sad decline.

The bastards slight me with their whimsy,
All their slick evasions flimsy,
Shallow as a kiddie pool I recklessly dove into.

Bitter is my sawed off spirit, an awful swift assassin,
Hopefulness a musty relic, fallen out of fashion.

The mirror cracks, the cancer spreads, the web is all but woven.
I stand upon the precipice, where nothing is forgiven.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED