The Origin of Things
By Reginald Manning
A thing is just a thing.
No given name removes its original classification,
Even if hidden.
We call it savage, and it is.
We call it beast, and it is.
We call it man, and it aspires to be.
All monsters are beautiful at conception,
Hideous perfection,
Born without intent.
Raised upon a doctrine,
Infected with paradigms,
Accepted or rejected by the societal masses.
A thing is just a thing,
Until it surrenders to a master.
Poems & War
By Reginald Manning
What is war?
Poetry written in death lined sonnets,
Sonnets only written never spoken,
Spoken memories tell tales of war,
War stains bodies in blood,
Blood is an elixir for soldiers,
Soldiers are no longer men,
Men were not meant to be martyrs,
Martyrs are nothing without cause,
Cause is needed to start war,
War is what poems are.
Currency
By Reginald Manning
Violence is the currency of prison.
I wish not to invest.
For every exchange I partake in,
I lose myself less and less.
Before the iron fastened my wrist,
Before my ankles were shackled in chains.
I understood the economy of life,
I store the transactions in my brain.
I became a consumer behind these walls,
A customer who spent without credit.
My soul was the collateral I borrowed against, now the beast has come to collect it.
Violence is the currency of prison, it is spent without regard for tomorrow.
No judge or jury will ever know how I’ve paid my debt in sorrow.
No Comments