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Mike The Everyman Angryman

of

Northboro, MA, US

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Pride - The Hot Air in a Balloon

by

Mike The Everyman Angryman

It fills an empty space with more emptiness.
It puffs up the outside appearance until it starts looking stretched.
Taxing the material with excessive stress until the inevitable occurs - just as pride always breaks the ego.
And in that moment before hubris sticks in with sharp little pins, the balloon of pride looks so different and ugly from its natural form at rest. I love to pop the pride of all the fakes that dance around the world with their inflatable egos. Love to watch that Pride stick in their teeth like self-important spinach - when they act so silly that everyone but themselves can notice their flawed personalities. Pride is justified arrogance manifested by a superior attitude. But it is still just hot air that cannot support things of substance. The talk of pride is the blather of soap operas and the weight of soap bubbles - people get tired of melodrama unless they have a commercial break every eight minutes or so. Being a person of substance and not style fills your ego balloon with mental iron. No one can pop your attitude when it is based on truth and not confidence. The world is full of pricks both figurative and literal, so be on your guard and keep your balloon small and prot
ected with reality.


On-The-Rant Orientation

by

Mike The Everyman Angryman

Here, I hear what I heard be whore.
The floor is spilling the sealant and ceiling.
Filling the holes in shoe souls in walls with ears.
Drilling trains of idea pains to my brain.
But Cains are unAbel to bring less than sane to the brunch table of Sane's bane-crunching grip.
Deal I could with my own ungood, but sugar mommas too sweet slip poison in meat to meet me later even though I hate her.
Yet, avoiding her mature themes leads to carnographic dreams and shouting scenes complete with scheming screams and ends to means.

Sorry about that.

Cliche Bullet Spray

by

Mike The Everyman Angryman

The scent of a woman was ripe in the air.
Springtime's wolf sprang again.
Snarling at sunbeams trapped in dark hair.
Life tasted better once then.
I watched I waited I wanted I hated that day.
My graceless heaven was too complicated.
"Will she come back once more?" I painfully prayed.
And they laughed at my infatuation.
And I acted so rashly that relation-ships sank - she screamed her sins with my own paltry words.
And this serial whining soon drove me to drank - romance dance with death left me as turd from bird.

So here I stand with a memory in my hand.
Yet. Yet. Maybe the "her-hate-shun" was a piece in the puzzle of my "salivate-sun".
And to get this goat, I'll pen out a note. A love letter.
Shitty practice next to the real thing, but nothing's better.

So I stare at the knives inside my cries, and stare with my eyes at the lovers' long thighs riding high on their own piece of sky - and that painful memory finally dies nigh.