Sunday, April 25, 2010

The Candy Cain Tree: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"The Candy Cain Tree"

With sand in my eyes; I try to stay sane as I head for the door; my knees buckle below me. I feel like a fool’ no turning back as my time flies by with flower scented grace. My face falls off into the mirror on the floor and I need to open my eyes once again. I hear my voice say out loud grief will find you; don’t lay still your not under the candy Cain tree. The taste of peppermint is in the air; my eyes going blurry; my mind goes blank; they have truly left me behind again. To swallow my own

Pride; my feet are back on the ground and nothing will stop me now; I’ll never forget the candy Cain tree; were they left me.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.


Sunday, April 4, 2010

Brother: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

It never happened this way, not enough time in the day to make it right, not enough time to write the words I want to say they fell from my tong before the time ran out. Yet I wait and wait for a simpler day to come. I know there are more people in this world than just I. It sounds selfish, I guess when things don’t go right, I curse and fight with the clock just trying to get things straight, it’s never worth the wait. Deciding if this will be your fait or your third wind, you get in the black out of this stress ridding pain staking free fall. Some might say in this world there is less pain then tragedy, if I could rip the very heart that beats in my chest out and show it to the world what would they say?

Would they say lay down and die?

Would they say that the blood dripping from my hands was not enough for them?

What would be there verdict for me?

How would they judge the truths versus the lies others have taunted me so well with through my life?

Less will always be more to me; but the world will go on pushing, chewing at the bit to get a piece of my heart, chewing away at the side that rivals me in the time of me seeing all red.





We have become them, can’t you see the ones we despise, the ones we hate, we.... have become the image of what hurts and kills, it is too late we have gone a wry.

Brother has killed brother again and now the blood upon my hands is not my own.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.