My whole family is dysfunctional so we all drive each other crazy. My younger brother got in trouble for something pretty serious and my whole family has been up since 4:00 a.m. dealing with this problem. Personally I like my sleep, so when it gets interrupted in such a manner, I was ready to walk outside and sleep. We live on a farm so it makes it easy to do something like that. It was a warm night so I would have slept peacefully under the stars thinking about peaceful sleep and how not to strangle the rest of my family. But family is family, right? So you got to love them.

You have made your hatred of me public in social media, and on playlists you send me.

You send me another.

You want me to hear you made a playlist about me-- after all, it carries my namesake. My stalking to find it is practically irrelevant. Perhaps I care how you are. What does it matter my intention? It is for me, like a horrid gift of a dead bird on my porch. All is void else wise.

Late at night, over two years post mortem our relationship I settle down to hear what is your peace with a cooler and my dog's steady breath nearby, It is late-- 1:10 am and I feel anxiety pool in my stomach as I see the apology for a title.

I understand your response to my existence. I'm a shit human. I have made peace with that, so I kick my toes up and down respectively presuming nothing more shall wound me.

I am wrong. You blame me with a severity that shames a murderer.

I swallow the liquor by my bedside, and taste the lime on the back of my tongue. I feel something more malevolent on the tip. Something festering, that is angry and hurt. It burns in my soul. I do not take it out on you.

I shake it off, genuinely like a dog of its water. It makes my neck ache and my lips turn upside in a grimace. I do not care. My ache is beyond me. It is not justifiable.

I will not share what you have said, but you cannot keep blaming me for everything.

It’s been years since I have loved you. Since you loved me. Since you knew me.

I returned briefly, and even at my worse I did not deserve this because I loved you, as best I could. I understand that we have traumatized each other., but not enough for you to talk about me still. Not enough to like make a playlist that is burgeoned by rage and hurt.

You do not know me if you think I am so mean. So reckless.

You do not love me. You do not understand my love. Haven’t tried.

Yea, they wiped his memory, but what’ll they do about:

The memories of the parents of those four young girls he raped and murdered.

The memories of the husband and child of that one woman he tortured.

His own parents, and grandparents, none of which will still venture out in public.

That dog he skinned alive.

That kid and his bike who disappeared from his fourth grade class.

That same kid’s younger sister who barely got away, and lives everyday in fear.

Who knows who else?

What about those people’s memories? You gonna swipe them too?

Screw that son of a bitch. Fry him already.

The man sleeping

upon the bus stop bench

blocking your view

of this month’s

burger ad,

paid for by the fast-food joint

around the corner,

is hungry,

and his name is Bert Huggins,

if you cared to know.

Parasitic Press

printing Lies

and promising prospective futures

persuading the naïve,

and pooping on palpable creators.

Leeches feeding

off artists,

who starve themselves

preserving their chances to share

a single masterpiece,

surviving only

off the last bits of nutrients,

they consumed

more than a month ago,

and you,

the parasitic worm,

the bloodsucking fucks,

the vampiric assholes,

I doubt you sleep at night,

spending more time

creating ways to lie, steal, and cheat

then making your own content.

You should be hung out to dry

on my Clothesline.

There was grief,

there's always grief,

before the storm. Like some sort of deep internal brewing, the painful gasping of air before the breath turns hot with emotion.

First, the grief.

Of course, we already mentioned that.

Then we might part ways, like on a narrow bridge of sadness and in our temptation, turn back to the wider bridge of anger so as to flaunt about our lack of successions.

Fear that the anger will be met with no resistance turns up the volume, spreading out the hopeless rakes of unending wanton for the life just barely out of reach.

There's the person at fault,

the supervisor,

the supervisor above the supervisor,

and then their committee.

All deaf ears.

And so I turn, turn backs on them and go on up the latter. Further up to committees, then attorneys try to worm their way in and I'm not interested. No. I want my voice heard. I don't want money. I want what I came and paid for, what my people paid for and what they expected I would receive. A service, no, not lip service. Real fucking service. Not some crumb excuse that I failed on my end, we already know that. I know that, the records know that, and you damn well fucking know that the very same. Insipidus snake. Damn your fucking 'research' and systems alike! There's no accountability! Damn that all and that bullshit timeline you gave to me.

I am tired, roused up by my anger to overcome my sorrows and vulnerabilities and I demand countenance or lest my anger wave you from my way as I move on further.

No, no leeches will attach to me. No lawyers, no mob of angry citizens, no news casters or journalists. Just me, me and me alone so you can feel discomfort in my plight. So you can squirm and wriggle at the immensity of my contempt rather than feeling ample motive to discount my motives by some faceless mob so as to hide and victimize yourself. No. I am angry, very so, and in your face. Feel the intensity of my fire, burn within its wake.

The days seem long, the years go fast

ephemeral, it cannot last

life, love, the memories you share

dream of forever if you dare;

blink and the present becomes past

the days seem long, the years go fast

the path behind a vivid guide

death lies ahead, you cannot hide;

you gave your life for this moment

was it worth it? Do you own it?

the days seem long, the years go fast

the echos of yesteryear are vast;

do you rejoice in existence?

Meet time's passage with resistence?

Enjoy it all! The die is cast!

the days seem long, the years go fast.

Thanks for the truth

Thanks for the alcoholism

Thanks for the breakdown

Thanks for not much

Thank you for everything

David Burdett

6/18/2023