You saw us as outlaws.
Our lives lived by the sword was the appeal.
For us it was never a choice.
We dreamed cause it was our only escape from the shit that was our existence.
We paid our dues collected scars, broke hearts, and lost our souls somewhere along the way.
You saw our failures as something noble.
Hero worship is for bloated egos and old men who wish to cast their opinions down upon others.
I rather that you give me a beer and give me my space.
For you it's a path to walk maybe get laid, share some laughs, and be part of a brotherhood.
Every pup wants to run with the wolves eventually.
I never knew another’s shadow for I carved my own existence by clawing my way up and stepping on whomever tried to stop me.
You saw the bullshit and never the truth when others cast labels upon us, and you just simply wanted in the circle no matter the cost.
Once you’re in you realize the ocean is a lonely mistress and the sharks are many.
Welcome to the club.
The scars we bare are many and the rewards few.
It's not a honor its the only existence we know.
You never chose to be a pirate or outlaw it’s just a fucking label.
And I'm over it already.
Why I Got Into Poetry
The page was just there it was like that first little girlfriend we all find when the world is new and your hopes are many.
She was my first and remained my eternal passion.
Through the rest that leave you she remained and I grew to be the writer I am today.
Hearts break, people pass, and the embers of a once raging fire are all that remain.
She lays with you and eats at your very soul like any drug she can consume you like all the rest.
The best drugs all resemble some sort of twisted version of love.
And I am the worst kind of junkie that ever did exist.
I was lost to a degree and unable to find my place but I damn sure found the bottom of a bottle.
Emptiness is a disease that eats away like cancer.
I wasn't in the fight anymore I simply hung up my gloves and said goodbye.
I didn't haunt the old dives that once painted the page.
I was a recluse a former outgoing semi happy fool who now was just miserable fuck who waited to die.
My phone rang and most gave up.
I wasn't in the mood to pretend to be someone I wasn't anymore.
And no longer were my vices charming I was a addict and trying to hold a conversation while pretending I wasn't a full blown train wreck was just more than I was willing to give.
I found silence more soothing than conversation.
And I no longer cared to make up stories to entertain.
Nights were the worst and sometimes I found myself reaching out.
I mainly wrote someone who no longer cared for my words.
She never replied.
She was like the silence and I imagined within it I was still with her.
And she was as cold and empty as ever.
We shared that common trait.
See you at sunrise.
John Patrick Robbins is a barroom poet who's work is a hundred percent unfiltered. His work has been published with Piker Press, Outlaw Poetry Network, Red Fez, Inbetween Hangovers, Blognostics , Spill The Words, Horror Sleaze Trash, Romingos Porch .Your One Phone Call.