He Who Flings His Shit at Others

to the men out there,
fighting the wrath
in forgotten dim rooms.
to the men out there
scribbling in their notebooks,
getting laughed at.
to the men out there,
who squirt ketchup on their eggs,
and pour hot sauce on their spaghetti.
i can see you now,
fighting with yourself,
as you eat that cold fried chicken
over the trash can,
or if you're a classy gentleman,
you eat over the sink.
there's more of you out here,
it's not just you,
or me,
there's thousands of us roaming the streets,
in and out of bars,
every night.
feeling bad for ourselves
disappointed in everyone,
searching for that next high,
that next rush of fear,
as paranoia strips us of everything,
and our throats are scraped dry,
from our constant agonizing screams.
you're not the only one.
feel joy in knowing,
that others share what you're doing,
what you're experiencing,
and ultimately,
what will make you
tougher than iron.
through all this,
you will walk around with steel reinforced balls,
and stand up to every task
with a rational head,
and a good heart.
to the men out there,
who feel
that your books,
that bottle,
and your brain will save you.
they will.
but you have to still leave a piece,
to share with others,
choose wisely who you share with,
because some of them,
will displace your hate,
with blindness.
so now
as you wallow in yourself
drowning yourself,
let a smile creep across your face,
in knowing,
that there is solidarity out here for you,
but we are a vital part of a secret society,
we do not talk,
do not acknowledge,
it's merely a head nod,
if that,
as if saying:
"hey,
i get it."