Not a theory, but a fact

I grew up, naïve, lanky, bullied, but
something specially specific, wielded
a chainsaw and slowly butchered each
iota of flower petal dreams, and it’s
tragically beautiful: sorrowed because
it split me into two, slowly, brutally, skull,
spine with its bones of high C, middle C
and low E, artistic because after,
it gifted a sawed me with
the very weapon, saying, “Here, now it’s
your turn,” and so I use this poetic gift or a curse,
and I cannot say how vulnerably strong
it makes me, the problem with that other
motherfucker next door is he grew up,
bullying Jeremy, and once Jeremy spoke,
he behaves like the man-child he is,
elevating love, talking in emoticons and hearts,
saying people send him letters asking
him if he writes for them,
I’m sure they do friend, and converses with
another prom-queen bitch who feigns
that she was bullied, well
their virtual romance is sickening,
and so, I can’t help but live, killing off
my suicidal tendencies while I hack
on this outdated laptop, because I
have something more real than a ‘muse’
or inspiration, when all they’ve got is
imitation, we’re not stereotypes,
we’ll never be, I’ve known boys who
cut themselves in the neck now made of graphene,
but I give room for doubt, and so,
I’ll take malleable metal that’s durable,
I’ve learned to not chase the will-o’-the-wisp,
or push with quasi-inspirational grit that ‘real men’ use,
and dogma haunts nihilism, nihilism combats
doctrine, and the gentlest zephyr pushes
away heavy artillery, and machine gun poesy
sets fire to the culturally sensitive feminist here,
swishing and swirling, never realizing that
they’ll (dis)robe her once the system takes over,
or the poet who romanticizes our reality
creating a theatrical coffin, oh broken heart!
Or the white realist who’s seventy or eighty
and lives in Asia and stereotypes us,
his science only makes him a
racist, anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter,
no pill will work now, and he’ll stay
limp dicked and soon dead.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

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