The Aesthetics Of Anger

When said the moon to the stars in the sky
A small boy was born upon the day his mother died
Upon his 30th day did also rise
An only son in September.

And when he was young and death did follow
Him like a bird and left him hollow
At five & twelve & 13 lives
A trail of tears & unspoken goodbyes
That made him all like quiet

And dead to him-self, inside.

The solitary boy who learned to read big books
Who found all the poets, verses & hooks
And who lived in a mind of his own.

And the boy got in trouble, the boy he got in fights
Stood up for the weak ones
And blackened bullies eyes, broke their noses
And bloodied their tries at being the toughest kid
And he never, lost a fight.

But it was’nt out of cause that the boy became bad
And it was’nt cause he had ever had
A reason to ever hurt anyone else
At all.

It was just all because of the matter, and
The Aesthetics Of Anger

And the will to hurt all
Those who hurt others, and deserved it as well,
To kill, hurt and keep the inevitable its self,
The oncoming years from coming
To destroy that which one cannot see
Something that comes to both you & me unceasing.

Stealing his love, and stealing his friends
One day, at a time.

And many years passed
And many things changed
Many lives left
And many hearts came
And softly entered into
The procession of his life

And the boy, now a man finally
Figured out what he was
And was finally meant to be,

Not a doctor or a wraith
Or a quiet man of hate, the shaman or a slave to all those
Who want power over the masses or to be the best

For he was only born to be
hardcore troubadour, a poet
And a man of words incarnate
Using his voice, and words as weapons
To fight & to defeat
All those who would try to
Kill the spirit that dwells within

With versus
And sarcasm
Truth & history
New images & myths

And that’s why he was born.

To be the hand up Mona Lisa’s dress,
To be the heart within your chest
The voice that beats and holds you close
And says the things you want the most
That you can’t say yourself.

To become the dark
And become the light
Tween’ both worlds
He’s traveled this night
And wrote & brought back
Something that
Another never could

For you see? It’s not his fault,

For it was just all because of the matter, and
The Aesthetics Of Anger

That you & the forces that be
Created themselves

The words, now his weapons

And the boy has been beaten, bloodied,
Stabbed &
Knocked down

But has never lost a fight yet,

And never “Will”

____________

R.M. Engelhardt  2011