The Purge Of Ninty Nine Percent Of Americans Poem by James McLain

Some stay for the drama while other's
have married to leave
where the opposite of love is a comedy.
Look around you
it just can't be it is happening here
all around U.S.
Hope is not lost on Emily
and my faith is made fond when found.
Pain of pain that smile on your face
every where life is cut short.
It is only the depth of a great depression
the kind where you cut
to survive.
Cuts so deep and their wide
eyes opened up wide in surprise.
There is no blood
but the smell of raw meats in the air.
Here there is always an empty
cell for me
where the paint has always been chipped
and the rain out side
that can't get in makes me sleep.
Some of U.S.
save our medication always looking
searching for that final way out.
With no where to hide it except in our
vagina or rectum
any other place is searched by finger.
Here where death is not a suicide
and life is
but a book that is worthless
open to that page
where the once numbered pages sit open
staring out past at the days
that are gone
yet returned every day before the midnight.
I discern economies failing
most will think
that in here better off you will be.
How does one hide all that money
I am cloned
so that I will have to endure by hand it again.
I am number 057512
and all whom before me that have come
back have back there gone.
No one could really recreate those exact
circumstances
though they never stop trying
that had I lived again like the very first time
and I never ever
having known that one kneading hand
and because of that you could never know
how I once lived and died knowing you.