I Raced The Radio Poem by Andrew Prout IV

Mouth like a fist.
Two bubbles above the chin
Just below the mouth.
Long hair, darker than blonde.
Straight, like its simple, life.
Smart, as they say, face and eyes.
Giant mushroom hat loose as the blouse.
Sandals from the beach.
Out of reach
But name a work that isn't?
Hush, desperate children,
It's just a poem,
Though I guess we call these songs.
It's as though you dream on lazy afternoons
Of saying, Hello, I love you to someone.
Blame it on your youth
For you to fall in love
With anything short of Di Vinci's,
The Sistine, or meaning.
Who here's on empty?
Who here tires of trite?
Who here's trying to comprehend loss
Withouth the advantage of villains, a vampire's bite?
Who here still reaches out from moments
They're now ashamed to compare to hell?
In music, literature, or cinema?
How about drugs, romance, now church?
Mona Lisa's been cut a little on either side
But watch our movements rise and fall,
Do battle with one another and go.
What do you think?
Do you think maybe she knows?
Paint her again, you whisper.
You need a center.
At ten we were animals and acted accordingly.
I'd give you everything I've found so far
But I'm trying to concentrate.
But okay...Mouth like a fist.
Two bubbles above the chin
Just below the mouth.
Perhaps the nose is a little fat...
For some reason it's like they hurt us
We hated frauds so much,
And woman was alwyas an idol
But I guess we'll still call her God,
The Virgin Mary, paradise.
Forever, child, as in heaven.
And now we're back on earth.
And now I battle that for freedom
Come what may, what have you,
What's still to come.
Devilish, yes, but life and I go on.
Sunday syas it's what He wants
But Monday's trading can get tangled,
Mangled, broken like a group of boys
Too grown to groan over loss.
Then I wake and realize that I, too, am reaching out.
That once again I'm crying and looking up.
Then there's conflict where once there was home.
So hello, please take me back to that place
Whether you name is war, religion, sex, or love.
I prefer your country, Ellis Island,
All of the above,
And a common silence found in moments like accidental vapors.
They're authentic, even when they're gone,
And more or less like us.