Drum (revised, universalized)

Its violence.
Its violence muted like mutilated newscasts turned all the way down.

He stands above that instrument of burden.
This is his curse.
That is our incarceration.
His hands shoot up.
Heavy and worn, his palms brace for his furious swings.

BANG..

His hand crashes down.
His plight takes a shattering sound.
Around his wrists, beads clatter.
They are singing for freedom,
But their notes hit far from tranquil tones.

BANG, BANG

"When will she break? When does this,
This fearful dance burst open.
When does release come."
He begs for some kind of emotional cleanse.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG

Pain starts to sink in, his palms burn,
His blisters form and pop and callous.
He is reminded of the life over his shoulder,
Burdens, hunts, tears, lovers, all massing-
Becoming the black ravenous vulture,
Clawed into his back, taking nutrition from the
Blood seeping from his wounds.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG

This is his life, his pain. He beats the wooden, leather bound,
Beast of burden with every bit of fury. Tears soak his cheeks
And mix with the blood now soaking his music.
When will this antithetical Pandora's box give way, and pierce the darkness
With hope. With her light.
He cries for blind cathartic relief

Bang, Bang, Bang,

He forces his mind to wander- let go of his pain.

Work, Work, Work,

Sex, Sex, Sex,

Spend, Drink, Eat, Fuck

Earn, Sleep, Run, Repeat.

BANG, BANG, BANG

These furious swings are empty mugs, clanging on iron bars.
All to one beat. Imprisonment, Futility.
Beat after beat, only mark the leather head.
Bang after Bang, leave blood on the messy face
That is so tormenting, staring back,
Empty- impervious.

BANG
This drum refuses to burst open
BANG
This drum refuses to let him go
BANG
This drum refuses him.

This drum encompasses him.

…

This drum is empty bottles littered along the dirt.
It is a blank screen and white noise at 3:15 in the morning.
This drum is the bible on a white marble podium.
It is the porn trampled underfoot.
This drum is the last cigarette.
It is the fifth call of the night.
This drum is the stumble up the stairs that are so much longer tonight.
It is the refusal of life.
It is the token of life,
That won't go unheard.