Angry Young Man Poem by Steven B Taylor

Humanity


Angry Young Man
Opus 112

Mercy has no meaning to the young man with no soul.
Where once a heart was beating, now lies an empty hole.
With metal in hand he aims to kill and existence slips away.
His eyes reveal no feeling, just another working day.


Through darkened windows sirens cry. I have heard them cry before.
Another loss, a wasted life and I know there may be more.
Come morning we gaze upon each page of every fallen tree.
A thousand sighs in unison 'thank God it wasn't me.”

Emptying out his pockets, he tabulates the kill;
A bloody watch, a wedding band, a twenty-dollar bill.
He'll have to work much harder, so many from which to choose.
Pick out the perfect victim and wind up on the news.

Walking alone with downcast eyes I no longer watch the sky.
I hesitate with every step when strangers pass me by.
The givers and the takers, it has always been the same,
And what becomes of those like me should the givers lose the game?

That sweet relief I often felt when reaching my front door,
Was over shadowed by the gun...I hope and dream no more.
Photographers squint through a darkened lens, recognition in their eyes;
Another headline, another loss, another thousand sighs.

Emptying out his pockets, the taker cursed his fate.
He couldn't contain the anger, couldn't deny the hate.
Her only possession, a locket, inscribed for the killer to see.
'Though you've taken my life, cast my dreams to the wind...I'm richer than you'll ever be.'