I'm pointing out every headstone on the corner as I blur through another street in Southern California. Sometimes the nameless die making their names. In this life, everyone searches for respect. In this life, many sputter to their end or die trying and moving and failing.
Every block is gold. Every street is lined up with names. Everyone makes their voice known to the world. Every second counts to the nameless. We live and die and smile with the minutes flying by. I toast all those nameless and starved poets of hatred, violence and sin. I toast all those nameless driving towards their final breath. And why death? Because suicide is a dangerous and bizarre ride.
Today, the nameless holler for this and that on the corner block. Tonight, someone answers their pimp and visits a John who has murder on his mind. Tonight, the senseless violence picks a new victim. Tonight, the nameless fall. Will they be resurrected by God? Was God their friend, their rock, their hope, their survival? Or was God just watching and waiting? Today, will the nameless claim another street to build their names?
The nameless gesture madly into the cold, wild air. The nameless shout until their vocal cords strain. The nameless pop open their trunk and load up trap doors in their Monte Carlos. The nameless poke out their heads and see death and destruction in this living Hell. The nameless get overworked and loaded spilling their hatred, their guts, their basest emotions to live another day.
One day, I too was nameless. I took my bag with all of my beloved possessions and ran away. I spit my hatred out at all of those people living because I felt that they were mocking me with their apathy. One day, I was nameless and forever speaking of my childhood veering away from me. One day, I gripped the cold median divider and prayed that someone would read my name on the freeway. Sometimes the nameless speak about a new day.
Every block is gold. Every street is lined up with names. Everyone makes their voice known to the world. Every second counts to the nameless. We live and die and smile with the minutes flying by. I toast all those nameless and starved poets of hatred, violence and sin. I toast all those nameless driving towards their final breath. And why death? Because suicide is a dangerous and bizarre ride.
Today, the nameless holler for this and that on the corner block. Tonight, someone answers their pimp and visits a John who has murder on his mind. Tonight, the senseless violence picks a new victim. Tonight, the nameless fall. Will they be resurrected by God? Was God their friend, their rock, their hope, their survival? Or was God just watching and waiting? Today, will the nameless claim another street to build their names?
The nameless gesture madly into the cold, wild air. The nameless shout until their vocal cords strain. The nameless pop open their trunk and load up trap doors in their Monte Carlos. The nameless poke out their heads and see death and destruction in this living Hell. The nameless get overworked and loaded spilling their hatred, their guts, their basest emotions to live another day.
One day, I too was nameless. I took my bag with all of my beloved possessions and ran away. I spit my hatred out at all of those people living because I felt that they were mocking me with their apathy. One day, I was nameless and forever speaking of my childhood veering away from me. One day, I gripped the cold median divider and prayed that someone would read my name on the freeway. Sometimes the nameless speak about a new day.
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