It’s Yours, huh?

It’s yours, huh?
For two and a half years,
Blood, sweat, and tears,
I have picked through the wreckage.
A pilgrimage
Into the seedy underbelly closet
Of your neglect.
I shipwrecked myself on your criticisms.
Got lost trying to find my way to what was right.
Until finally,
Too tired to fight,
I set a course
To get the lost to shore.

Of course
I couldn’t care less for your criticisms.
Shrugged off your pessimism.
Shook off your politicisms.
I couldn’t give a fuck
Unless it was
To get these young ducks
Across the ocean,
Readied for war.

I breathed life into dead bones.
My ducks became honed birds of war.
On point,
In place,
Ready to seize the day.
And they did.
Ignoring the cancerous
They soared to grand heights.
Bettering themselves
And bettering each other.

Lover,
Please.
Don’t tell me how this is yours.
Don’t tell me that this belongs to you.
Where were you?
When I begged for help
And received absence…
And silence.

That gale storm I sailed alone.
I learned to speak duck and bird of war.
I built a fleet so faithful.
Handed the results back to you.
These birds,
In the end,
Are yours.
But this process perfected,
Is mine.

So please,
Step the fuck of my feet.
I have ducks that need
To be transformed
Into a fleet.
Readied for war.

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About Z.

Poetic pipe and cigar enthusiast rifling through the haunted memories of a not so distant past while openly wrestling with faith and God. A rambling writer with the misguided notion that he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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