A poem from my wayward youth, when I used to ponder my existence.
Where is the methadone clinic for the people who take drugs with their eyes and thumbs? Why does asking for the wifi password feel like finding a vein?
A poem, but not about tinnitus.
A poem whose title demonstrates truth in advertising.
A poem about invisible disability.
No ideas. Writers block. Fuck it, just put something on the page, then hit post. But what if it doesn’t make sense? Doesn’t matter, hit post, keep posting. Post post post. You need the likes. True, I’m fiending. That means you’re addicted. Yup, and twitter is my dealer. You should quit. You just told meContinue reading “Your Likes are My Crystal Meth”
To my new followers I say thank you and welcome! I hope you enjoy my political tirades and hot takes, but mostly I hope you enjoy my poetry. If you enjoy this blog I that ask you to please join my patreon. This blog is totally self run and run out of pocket, and sinceContinue reading “Join My Patreon”
Well intentioned white liberals often assume that all oppressed groups stand in solidarity with each other, that is because liberals are class reductionist.
Why I am going to write as much poetry as I will about politics.
Official Post from The Professional Protester : Your house is my home, Mr. and Mrs. Landlord.You have the deed,but I have the memories.It might be your property, but it is my life.The living room that you want to sell,That is where I saw our children play,Where I did puzzles with grandma,Where my siblings and I playedContinue reading “Your House, My Home (A poem about eviction) | The Professional Protester on Patreon”
Why do we take the joker out of the deck? The comedian knows more than the journalist, and the Jester was the king’s adviser. It is easy to keep your distance if we laugh at the messenger instead of killing them. Why do we take the joker out of the deck? Does the dealer fearContinue reading “Why Do We Take The Joker Out of The Deck? (Poem)”
Liar Liar Pants on Fire Caught Red Handed. She stabbed Bernie in the back With a political attack That was totally ungrounded. Political ambition Blinded her from the mission Of speaking for the wounded. The gal with the plan Had no plan And so her chances now have ended.
Hundreds of lives a year, No rest for the wicked they say. But what is so wicked about selling something to feed a baby? When you have nothing to sell but flesh or a high, Is that really your fault? Hundreds of lives a year, Thousands rotting in the cold Or drowning in the rain.Continue reading “Hundreds of lives a year”