A Neon Pion Poem by Charles Monroe

I found myself among the lost
Pentagrams inside a cross
Where the pion is the boss
And the neon has no gloss

Music notes falling in the rain
Uncontrolled substance is contained
The art of mastering our inner slave
Whipping self with platinum chains

Poverty taught me gold
The alchemy of words and poems
Wooden liquid drops on windshields
Every corner has graffiti

Wars are validated by death
Life, is valued by few
Souls are amputated by breath
Words authenticated my view

In cool days we wish for sunshine
In the sun we ask for clouds
On foot, we crave a bus ride
In sky, we pray for grounds

In love we fiend for lust
In lust, we search for love
With foes we find companions
In enemies we trust

What is really wrong with us?
Why do we accept the wrong?
Cause it makes for good material
In a poem or a song.

I once searched for truth
But now I expose it,
I use to make Love
And now I compose it.

Gathering roses for touch of the petals
Parts of my songs are imparted to ghettos
Pardon my query and obvious guilt
digitized letters are born from ink spilled

The glaciers that melt in ships made of glass
Releasing the smoke, inhaling the past
My music is Jazz, its Blues, and its Rock,
Country, classical, Spanish, and Pop

Underground Hip-Hop
America's word
redemption costs;
I found myself among the Lost.
P.X
3.21.14