I have been growing hope in the backyard
and green ice cubes of algae
for my half-brewed liquor of anger.
The growth of hope-saplings is subjective.
The saint that lives inside the closed-door
sometimes goes on rampant, destroying the crops.
I visit the nearby bar cussing.
Words out of my mouth like cigarette smokes
insignificant but displeasing.
The man at the corner table
gently shakes his whiskey glass
and harshly condemns the politicians,
the sacrifices charade,
the size-zeros, the dead and
even his drink for not being bitter enough.
“Toxicity is like raw metaphors
when you don’t find it,
your brain creates one” he says.
I hate what he says
and I hate more because I agree.
He is brutally honest about a thing or two.
For once I feel it’s better to be
with honest people at least we are aware
they can be destructive most of the time.
But it’s just a thought;
once you face the brutality every day
you’d run for the hills.
Everyone is toxic
and the reason you keep
growing hope so close, is so
you can catapult the poison out
through the patio,
one day at a time.