Champions
(©1992~2017 John T. Windle/Vaudeville John)


It came to pass one day
as I slumped in a chair;
too many young, old, lonely people
are voting on despair,
don't look,
you'll come too self-aware.

Too fat, too thin, wrong color,
race or creed.
Too shy, too lost, too ill.
Too camp, too popular, too different,
simply too beautiful.

   And all they wanted was 
   to feel like champions,
   a sense that they'd 
   conquered something real
   but it came along; 
   a hurricane of reasons 
   which punched at her ideas,
   fortified all of his fears
   and replicated fossiled tears
   from distant brethren.

Bullies, unchecked, scour their inbox,
new subjects for the pyre.
Little did victims ever know
the ogre had desired
kinship,
to love and be admired.

Adults hold scars of both the kind,
received, given on skin.
Others awaken from relief
to daily abyss within (I can't win).

   And all they wanted was 
   to feel like champions,
   a sense that they'd 
   conquered something real.
   But it came along; 
   a hurricane of reasons 
   which punched at her ideas,
   fortified all his fears
   and replicated fossiled tears
   from distant brethren.

And so a chain remains-unfixed
by drugs, laughter or booze.
Even comedians succumb,
bad mornings or reviews
just numb,
seems no way out but lose.

Religions; they claim it's a test,
just ask the holy see.
Then cover up their giant horrors;
social insanity (they roam free).

   And all they wanted was 
   to feel like champions,
   a sense that they'd 
   conquered something real.
   But it came along; 
   a hurricane of reasons 
   which punched at her ideas,
   fortified all his fears
   and replicated fossiled tears
   from distant brethren.

Would/will they ever make your heaven?


(©1992~2017) John T. Windle/Vaudeville John)