No Battles Conquered in this Cold World

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Ironic like an OnlyFans disciple preaching purity, urging the youth to quit porn and masturbation. I tell you, love don’t cost a thing, but my pockets prove otherwise — broke from supporting where I struggle to provide.

To reunite with honesty is to crawl back into the womb, where no one asked me to love, where no one asked for proof.

Mood swings in the playground of hell, sprinting back through fire to rescue the child I was before the flames of the Industrial Revolution modernizing him.

Love is happiness, but hate is an experience. Heartbreak is the bench press, the weight can crush your neck if no one’s there to support you.

The assistance keeps you alive, but the affliction is your lift. Struggling with resistance, claws tear through the chest like Wolverine healing from wounds.

Love makes you blind. Not by color, but by spirit, with an expiration date the day the teacher of death marks your final book report.

Love is a vacation, until the first day back. But here love on the other side of a barbed-wire fence.

And though you hand me the key, I only know escape scaling toward freedom, while you bleed against the rust.

The strongest stigma is love, like the Negro denied education. But pain opens the eyes, unmasking every disguise.

Affliction is puberty, while love becomes cartoons pushed aside. Children grow up and leave for college, their toys donated to daycare, but no one can play with them like Andy.

The more we chase, the less we gain. More degrees, less common sense. More followers online, fewer connections in real life. More money, more divorces. More choices, more consequences. More options, more arrogance. More condoms, more deadbeat parents. More single parents, more online dating. More two-income households, more split families.

More global warming, more rain where it’s supposed to be snowing. More technology, more distance. Ghosting always existed; this generation just gave it a name, gave it fame.

Put the 80s and 90s in a frame, children of different generations still sleep in the same bed frames. Celebrity death matches were the prophecy in ’98, that was gonna pull back the curtain in 2018.

Neglect fame when celebrities’ marriages reside in the dark cloud, crawling back into privacy or the ordinary. Or anywhere where the sound of living is never too loud, but still judged within the distance of misery.

U-turn after U-turn, stuck on the same block. America represented by the dalmatian. Impoverished, stuck in the same spot.

The block is a loop, not a ladder, where dreams are drafted but never mailed. Hope is a storefront with boarded windows, Ambition is a Ferrari that never drives here.

Government assistance out of reach. A level he can’t reach. A world he can’t preach. Denied the right to speak in a country that’s supposed to be free. Freedom of speech is woven only in the land of the wealthy.

As they wear the swag of fiancées while the cold-hearted of poverty remains, just protected behind a jacket. Steal the attention of church spouses, leave them breathless between the sheets that create broken homes where the spirit of poverty was never conquered.