The best thieves are never heard of, spoken about, written up, or remembered.
They’re unheard of legacies existing largely in the minds of
courageous and misled orphans of crime.
Not greedy or proud, but afflicted and torn
Between the road of Art
& the cul-de-sac called Hell.
They have no empires to build or flags to raise.
Just a conscience to bear,
maybe a diaper
to change.
i’m a broken man, not all there in the head
sometimes i feel free only to discover the valise i bought
was the spine of another man’s pants —
purchased with love, out of his very first paycheck
and i should have felt something,
i should have mourned
for my greed and my cheap reasoning
that i deserved a shroud on my back
more than he deserved to walk
but i am a broken man
i can not get my own legs back
i can not recognize where i am at
i am a broken man like teeth pulled apart
maybe no gaps in my smile,
but —
holes
in my heart.
“I must accept the punishment, all sentences have their terms. Their limits. Those limits are not negotiated -They are endured. Like beatings from an authority other than your Ten-year-old’s perception of Mom and Dad. The truth is that I must have something in my life which is not right – otherwise I’d have no reason to complain. And I need that reason, God, I need that reason. I need to feel useful somehow, cause I’ve got nothing else holding me together except the frustration with my life’s circumstances, my frightening scenarios, and my excessive and constant guilt – which brings forth nothing and only fosters self-loathing and deterioration. You may do something but it never clinches the shame that hangs over you and gnaws at your brain.
Guilt is the mysterious painful lining along the corner of your periphery; hanging itself, doing a balancing act on the razor’s edge. The clean side of everything you tried to keep fresh. Anything sterile will soon be eaten up. Even Hamlet’s mousetrap – it vomits before it unfolds…but neatly nestled within its unsavory corners: tiny pieces of me.”
Dennis Leroy Kangalee 