By Red Ghetto Rebel
March 26, 2017
Sitting on a microcosm of hell doesn’t mean you have Satan’s power.
Ignoring truth is like ignoring fate.
Normalcy becomes the shackles that imprisons all youth.
In retrospect even the air can hate.
Unlike faith, insanity has no real truth.
In hopes light, the deranged cower.
Casting judgment from the view of a Tribal Council seat is a fool’s hypocrisy.
Sovereignty is a bloodstained murder scene under this light of hope.
You exist in the way that you exist because of the cycle in which you perpetrate.
You slumber in its dormant wake unable to awaken from your infectious dope.
Another day you creep through the timeless momentum that you perpetuate.
Don’t be fooled by the irrelevant motions of incredible stupidity.
The smell of rotting afterbirth still permeates the threshold of your tomorrow.
Grandfather’s sky did once care but your fowl breath drove it to impurity.
There still is the sadist that you must eventually face.
In the ever-longing echo of the hourglass sand of a vicious eternity.
The day revolves into the same day as before and into its next disgrace.
Mental oblivion can sometimes be erratic in your morbid sorrow.
It all depends on the vision that you left in the bleeding vein.
As the shit flies spin into the rotting essences of your hopelessness.
They listen to the rumors and gossip that drives the mechanics of violence.
Bare skin addiction crawls from one end to the next with acidic ruthlessness.
Those voices become the nails driven into your fat tissue fraudulence.
You desire its lust in the strain of temptation to bleed again.
The meth blood drips from your mouth as viral affliction.
As your spiteful hands grasp for the air.
When the sun sets, the demon rips through your absolution.
The meth memories of a sleepless night scratch out your despair.
If the violent can speak of love its in the tongue of perversion.
Shoving your determination into your minds addiction.
Toward the flame you fly ready to suck like a dog in heat.
Lapping up the feces with delight as the meth cooks your soul again and again.
The clock ticks and the smoke tocks in an erratic frenzy.
The zombie rot cradles your inner child memories where it all began.
Into the pile of burnt offerings you fall for all to see.
They await you with their Tribal resolutions in hand stained by defeat.
They make their council motions and move to banish your unholy choices.
As the Native children die in the chemical filled darkness of your depression.
Their beaks open wide waiting for the Indian reservation scraps to fall.
Unable to stand on your own two feet as the meth eats your gray matter obsession.
Slurred speech of your hopeless cause, contempt’s all.
Its chemical enticement kills your purpose with those bi-polar voices.
Sitting alone you close your eyes to visualize this ubiquitous lie.
Trying to live through the illusions that masked your molestation.
Walking without moving, into the unknown housing unit you stagger.
A heart covered by tinfoil and permafrost shade of Indian Reservation.
Smoldering waste seeps from your syringe shaped dagger.
Sagging your pants because you are open for business as you slowly die.
Cannibalizing your own heart with brown rotting teeth you spew.
Those lifeless eyes begin to roll back into your chemical schizophrenic abyss.
The meth-induced seizures that render your reality mute.
On the door of death, begging for redemptions kiss.
The venom pit is telling you to eat its forbidden fruit.
With your mangy arms outstretched you embrace the meth spoon residue.
Your insanity drains red from your eyes.
Weeping your infection to dry upon your face.
Unable to see your deformed inception.
But the world sees your needle track embrace.
Try as you might, the sores expose your deception.
Urine and your life share your truth and your lies.
Your open sores spit disease into the eyes of your children.
As you commit another soul to starvation.
The pocket change devil needs it’s offering.
Nickel and dime your way to damnation.
You lie to your children to watch their suffering.
Your addiction is now your glorified villain.
Your entitlement is your rod and your pity your staff.
They comfort you in your demented hour.
Insecurity replaced with reservation delirium.
Ready to beat your children to death with your meth induced power.
Slitting their throats in your worthless continuum.
The meth turned your inevitable fate into a violent hate and tore your soul in half.
Believing you are god in your meth high torture.
A soulless single celled dysfunctional Indian.
In those who enable you, you demand their sympathy.
Once the nightmare wears off you stumble from your shadowy oblivion.
Looking for pity and gangrene empathy.
You awaken to your rape, your murder, your horror.
Weeping for mercy, they smile behind your back.
The lunatic has become a primordial addict.
No excuse can erase the disgusting reality.
As a meth addict its only pain you inflict.
Unable to stop your unholy brutality.
They want lives to molest and innocence to attack.
Meth addicts cannot be healed with dysfunctional love.
The cell door is their only medicinal cure.
Imprisonment removes them from their meth addiction.
Incarceration is their hell for sure.
They must be segregated from their rabid affliction.
In their despair they can find what a soul is made of.
The meth addict must be thrown into the pit.
They must fight with their own survival.
Alone they must be staked.
To the crucifix of despair and deprival.
It is the only way is to face their demon that forsakes.
And confront the memories that started it.
Long Live the Fighters!!