"It's like what Kurt Cobain said, man,
'Weather changes moods.'" - Remy
Those who romanticize small towns
never had their heartbroken by one.
Places where the brightest minds
all fall to darkness.
Where the flames of passions are
extinguished by the icy chill of indifference.
Where light isn't a strong enough disinfectant
to cleanse the legacy of bigotry-
from Confederate flags to the KKK.
I was born of this dysfunction.
The cracked streets and impoverished
blocks whose sidewalks I had traced
with my feet for years, as if trying to
etch my name into the city,
anything to leave my mark.
Naivete gave way to residual angst,
contempt that familiarity breeds.
Maybe it's the memories I hate,
making times past still feel so raw.
Maybe it's bitterness.
Maybe it's the dead friends.
the dying friends,
those rotting away because of a system
that has fucking failed them-
and a community that refuses to support them.
This isn't a rant,
this is a warning.
A love letter
Dear Owosso,
Your quiet intolerance
Your White Trash malevolence,
a toxicity that's hereditary
passing down an ignorance
that's resistant to medicine.
Where the artist will die,
malnourished unless they
find fertile soil.
Where the art scene is more
of a cult than community.
Where the only poetry is found
in a pastor's sermon.
Owosso, you made me out
of what you couldn't provide.
Where boredom equals death.
Where I learned
to never look back.
No comments:
Post a Comment