Truth that Bleeds

Seeing as how my computers have a tendency to get stolen, break, or get a virus (without me backing up my hard drive) I've taken to posting my poetry on the internet. I used to use the Myspace blog, but I've had my last straw with that stupid website and don't ever plan to use it again. I don't want to shift everything at once, but periodically I'll be taking poetry from there and submitting here.

This one is called "Truth that Bleeds"

Is there truth that still bleeds?
One heart that still beats?
One piece of art left unrated by the hollow iconographers
One sight not desecrated by a million blind photographers
Or a God not yet paraded by a million lined up followers
A drop of life left unsurrendered to the critics, tax and tacky vendors
And those pretty little prispers with their hateful little whispers
Where is there work not newly rendered by the modernist pretenders
To be glossed and painted over, hiding raw and naked lovers
Like the last leaf from December encased in glass to be remembered
Or a homemade family dinner that you can now have hand delivered
Where is there a cut without a band-aid or a laugh without a mandate
Where is there a man with all he needs as he watches himself breathe
Where is there truth that bleeds?

We see Jesus in our onion rings but barely remember our own dreams
The world begs for us to share it but we only listen to the parrots
We see magazine racks and candy bar shacks and coat hanger girls and modified squirrels
Children's tears from distant worlds are mixed in with our sweaters and shoes
We can't feed our babies our own milk, we cough out our air's residue
We keep bombs stored in our mountains and toxins in our fountains
And take pills to go to bed at night and pills to greet the morning light
Pray every day for a savior and then watch our actors play the heroes
All the while are collided by the prayers of those in need
But we only listen to our greed
Where is there truth that bleeds?

Where is art so real it looks like that dried piece of bacon left over from the night before
Or that photograph on the refridgerator at your mom's house from when you were four
Where is life so real you can feel its textures, instead of grazing over it like a another imperfection?
Where is life with light you can't describe, something you know nothing of, that you can't judge
Pureness with no name that won't be tamed by stupid words made up to capture the poetry for after
Something that will never be the same, the last of its kind like two old mens' laughter
Like the first smile of true lovers or the last wave good bye because nothing lasts forever
Like the last of its breed, the lonely, roaming warrior of an old, ancient creed
Where is there truth that bleeds?