Death To Tears Poem by Renee Marie

A lachrymose sentimentality mourns over
the intensifying acrimonious political wars dividing our
United States of America.

The Libtards are exploding with rageful empathy.
Republicons fill the swamp with a new, toxic sludge, daily.

No one and everyone is up to bat-away
at our more perfectly bruised and bleeding union.

Cowboys in Washington
cannot synthesizes a substance called pain.
Anarchy is the demand for self-determination.
Here, all the man-up gunslingers
and gold-diggers open-carry their own brand of AltWhite entitlement!

On Capitol Hill, lacrimation is starved to death,
suctioned dry yet swollen on insults rich in silver spoon.

I am drunk on WOKE ~ so utterly lachrymose that I've taken out
flood insurance on myself!
I practice laughing so I don't forget how.
I watch my own back, a closeted agnostic, social humanist who came out of the Lesbian closet decades ago!

The religious war against reasonability is profitbound!
The "He-Gods" have had their chance.
Cries of the world are groping blindly toward safe,
level ground all too sequestered by the moral cliffs of clever hypocrites.

I gather and blend screams of vivid, global tongue
hoping to hurl them deep into the core of ancient articulations.
Cowboys sling slogans and gruesome sights of beheadings to curse dissenters
back into barren crouched hearts bearing no apologetic compromise.

I am drunk on WOKE and long to wake them from
their comatose discomfort!

EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT;
the Nation empowers stagnation
silencing just indignation
counting on the sheep to force-feed you sleep
on a lullaby, work-a-day lie.

They hemmed and hawed
anthems of false conclusions;
"Sons of Bitches" ALL
and they painted the towns in Red, White and Blue and tried to etch "MAGA" all over me and you!
But WOKE IS THE POKE that proves you're called
beyond the rant and rave from the tribal cave
clamoring for Trickle-Down crumbs of redistribution
strangled restitution, deliberate confusion
as those cowboys ride the raging bull
The Sons of Bitches are plentiful and we don't sleep!

Do cowboys always get what they want,
regardless?
Is there no higher ground,
to find our level ground,
to stand upon?

Trails where we cried,
are lined with men who only want to dominate with
White-washed cronies who never sweat
or shed anything but thick,
black, fossilized control only meant to lubricate their square wheels
of progress for profit we still consume;

Comfort and distress,
comfort and distress;
cycles of crazed humanness!
I'd still rather be drunk on WOKE
than rest.

EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT;
Pass the tissue
then vote
your issue
it's all that we have left!


© Reneé Marie
6/25/18