"Phoenix Force: A Writer's Wings"

"Phoenix Force: A Writer's Wings"

Got big plans on kickstands.
From tunnels to platforms.
The launch pad isn't a new fad.
Just a recurrent chance to take
For those who choose to skate
Clean past what's "real or fake"
For that courageous leap of faith
High above leaves they used to rake.
So much at stake
For this lifelong raffle
That I broke out of the crate
But grew fond of the shackles.
Slave self served sans shame.
Sharp tongue with no game.
Untamed yet far from lame.
Unsung with no name.

Never really could claim
To be one in the same.
I've no exploitative aspirations.
You look to lord over nations;
But why should I set the table
when you dine in privacy?
Your indictments are unstable
Yet you assign dichotomy.
You try your best to pick brains.
You can command lobotomies;
But arms and legs still remain.
What of your vasectomy?
Where's the manhood?
What manner of man would
Search so deep under the hood
In loathing of what he misunderstood?

I'm not a rude dude.
I rarely shift moods.
I'm such a nice guy;
So I can't understand why
Our oppressors scream in pain
While living in the land of plenty.
I'm an advocate of change.
I'd offer my enemies some pennies
If I ever knew their names.
Joy is free. So is shame.
I don't melee for a payday.
Those were times I overcame;
But my two cents will knock five,
ask for ten back,
write an I.O.U. for payback
And loan back what you lack.

I'd rather press my collars and seams
Than let dollars line my dreams.
I meditate and mull over visions
Too complex for missions
Yet much closer than impossible.
The society at large
And I am but a piece
of this intricate collective.
The wiles of a detective
Would deem our methods effective.
Deduction is rendered defective.
Not true intent to be deceptive;
But a writer's mind is not planned.
We leave not room for one to stand.
You must float to understand.
Just hope to land on a kick stand.…………

…………and once perched,
Look miles past the earth.
God's stars are scattered for a reason.
The cynics call it treason.
The critics assign seasons;
But our calendar is undefined.
No wind chimes mark our time.
No crows of desolation.
No birds in search of scraps.
Just pages scattered, perhaps.
What few feathers are unearthed
Come not from where pigeons perch.
Heaven's angels. Trumpets loud.
Racing down from parted clouds
Willing to extend their hands
To those leaping from kickstands.

Poets fly. No need to land. P†F

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz