The Man In The Park


 

He rants-raves a string of outraged expletives,

muttered-murmured murderously

or shouted in anguished agony—

a pent up pipe dream penthouse of the prideful

and pissed off.

 

Some claim he alone instigates

while others lodge complaints

and though the law tries to dissuade and persuade

the police can’t legally do a thing and his audience

is resigned to stay.

 

But most shy / skirt / slide away

because they don’t know how to (and how do you?)

handle such a raw nerve so exposed—

trigger-happy anger,

pin-drop mood swings,

and brokenness as obvious as blood

pouring from a gaping wound that refuses to heal,

infected (affected)

inflicted (afflicted)

into a poison-passioned hysteria of hatred.

And I wonder how best to love him. 

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About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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