I used to be (cough) deep and write poetry. I found something that I should probably incinerate followed by shooting with a shotgun, but why not publish it?

The walks no longer fit the foot while

the childish faces laugh at the passerby. Laugh.

It’s the days when the crooks defy—

and the days divide.

Watch their palpable whispers

Psssp, psssp. Ha. Psssp.

Who are the fearful ones?

Who are the fearful ones?

The insecure, empty, plastic hearts for sure.

The buzzing sounds as the ink glows

The cigarettes burn and the bodies yearn. Oh,

how they yearn.

Bring us back to the nexus, the content,

the wanderings of the pesky philosopher.

Question, object and forge forward—critically.

The readers, translators, poets, pirates and pilots.

The genius that destroys, the times that implode, the lovers who

hold, hold.

Who are the fearful ones?

The monotone, static fuels the commercial and the dump trucks beep, beep.

The cracks split in the sidewalks and the ants cheer. Watch them manifest castles,

hideouts, Taj Mahals.

Just watch.

Breathe. Watch. See.

Drink to me, her, him, them, us, the bus driver—

Nevermind the hustle, gun, Rolex, anger, solitude.

Breathe.

Just.

–RYAN BOLTON

 

Written by Ryan Bolton

Ryan is a Toronto-based writer and photographer that likes to break the rules. His work has taken him around the world to do what he truly loves—storytelling. And drinking cold beer.