The Hole In My Head.

There's a hole in my head.
It's red and angry and an inch large.

It bleeds out at uneven intervals,
The words you see inscribed before you.

At present they are ash-black,
But they were once a shocking red.

Let me tell you of the gunmen, for this hole was not self-inflicted. They descended one Irish morning. I had the sadness when they crowded me, so I did not resist. The leader's muzzle was stuck to my temple. It felt such a part of me before it attacked. And then its awesome bite teared through my brain.

In the hospital I learned that medication kills a mind better than hatred, and I sat drooling for days on end. When I finally came to, I was killed again by condescension. The doctors enforced my role, and I lay awake and silent as a good patient does while my money ran into their pockets.

When the greenery was gone, they turned me loose. And so I roam the streets with a hole in my head. The strange looks I get infect my wound. It oozes sickly when their judgment pokes. So on it bleeds, a stream of life down my face. Its hot exodus makes me weary to the end.

As I lay my woozy head down in final resignation,
I feel a giant unfulfillment,
And I chuckle,
Knowingly,
In spite of it all.