old punk and hank

i listen to
all kinds of music
but deep down
it is fuzzy guitars
and a rough voice
singing punk rock
odes to living
that really get
to my tarnished soul
call out to my
inner rebel
the part of me
with a ready set
of middle fingers
and a tolerance
for lots of pain

you can hear it
the pain of someone
that has seen
a ton of shit
the disillusion
when the shiny veneer
runs into the gutter
the breaking point
where picking yourself
back up again
is an invitation
for more bad luck

punk rock and
the poetry of hank
they dont always
have something
truly insightful to say
but they still speak
in a way you cannot
help but understand
stripping life down
to the bare metal
relishing in scars
i spend my days
driving the city
singing loudly
as the ugliness
writes itself across
my stained glass heart
tattoing itself onto
my tongue with a
rusty safety pin
and i spread tetanus
in every fetid verse

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