Unkindness Of Ravens Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

In conjunction with
This ocean of shame
Across the dining table,
The glasses that cradle
Clear waters tremble
Over the conspiracy.

It's as if I am shrinking
In front of an unkindness
Of ravens - the sad part
Was, they were akin to me.
I guzzle their own blood,
I wear their integument
As I intermix their physiognomies
With my shame.

The utensils made a clangor
And I sat there like a petrified
Tree moored to a pale floor
Where the people come and go
Along with their own artillery
Of condescending judgment.

I was their quick fix,
Their saturnine satire.
I am their blank brigade of
A wall that they vandalize;
I think myself stricken
With this malady of
Doing nothing right over
Stale dinner.

I am bewildered -
I do not know if
The unkindness of ravens
Squawk my squalid faults.
Or if it is their tedious affinity.
I mustered my vim
To clamber up my dank bend
With the scent of derision.

It's when you're down
At the pits where they
Think you're up to something
Good; But when you resurface
And do something superb,
It's is from then on that
They think that you're just
A machine programmed
To commit the same,
Stereotypical redemption
Over and over again
Until you're at the pits
Where they laugh at you
Again and again.