Play Me my Song

i never touch a radio button,
for my kind of music never makes to their board titles,
a music with no season,
age or time,
but this my music be a tainted with pain,
and hate,
like the paving blood,
that forever paints my path,

it is the choking cries,
of a dying african child,
gone for days on an a stomach empty,

it is the groaning moan of a helpless wife,
battered by a drunkard of a husband,

it is the buzz of the feeding flies,
worms and maggots,
upon the scattered carcasses,
of a fallen herd,

it is the splattering sound,
of dripping tears,
welling from a broken heart,

and these my kind of songs,
they never play...
yet they shall play,
of money and whores,
but these their steps i will never walk,
of forever young and yet they too old,
of man down from a pulled, 
a woman a trigger did pull,
it is not in the concious i beseech,
yet,
forced to think the world is so right,
while each day an innocent child coffin,
silently sealed,
lowered,
motherless,
fatherless,
play me my song....


©skillz 2011