Thursday, April 25, 2013

A Poem For Fucking Amanda Palmer


A Poem For Amanda . . . 

You don't know how it felt to be in the bomb blast, but it must have been terrifying.

You don't know how closely their vital signs are being monitored - if you did, maybe you wouldn't have penned that abomination.

You don't know how to stop picking at your limbs that are actually no longer there.

You don't know how little attention you've been paying until you get the thousands of angry response of people upset with you.

You don't know how many times she'll ask:"When is Martin coming come?" until she finally understands that he never will.

You don't know how orgasmic the act of taking your child in your arms is until they take him away from you.

You don't know  how many people will never live normal lives again.

You don't know how precious your time with your loved ones is until you're crying at a casket being lowered to the bottom of a hole.

You don't know how to to feel total compassion for the people who actually deserve it.

You don't know how much we all want to tell you to go to hell and take your spellchecker with you.

You don't know how to explain yourself.

You don't want to live in the real world, and your fantasy world is all you have.

You don't know how offensive your poem is.

You don't know why you let this dribble out while they were still cleaning the blood off the streets of Boston and Watertown.

You don't know where your mind went.

You don't know how many victims will never again dance.

You don't know how your words managed to hurt so many.

You don't know how to separate the victims of evil from the perpetrators of evil.

You don't know why your ran your goddamn mouth off anyway.

You don't know how to measure the value of human life.

You don't know how you walked into this crap so obliviously.

You don't know how to adjust the reality mirror.

You don't know how to mourn Martin Richard, Lu Lingzi, Krystle Campbell and Sean Collier.




Your don't know.



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