Not Even Onions Make Me Cry By John Patrick Robbins

I always admired the old farts who seemed forged by fires of foreign shores and broken hearts.

Whose coffee was always black as night and graced with the taste of bourbon.

Whose scars had stories as the hosts rather tell you to fuck off than share.

Who looked off into the distance and somewhere far beyond the bullshit of trivial conversations.

Who seemed to hold secrets that would break the modern sensitive types.

My heroes were all, in truth, broken in some way, as so am I.

Busted knuckles, missing teeth.

Stories that would die with the  hosts, sunken ships of valued knowledge.

Faded tattoos with barely legible names.

I admired those men as, for some odd reason, their company I was permitted to share.

Mainly because I knew when to shut the fuck and listen or just when to play the right song.

Understanding takes depth. Unspoken compassion is rarely more valued than some prick politicians ' sugar-coated lies.

I admire the forsaken soul. I, in turn, have become one of them myself.

Saltwater within my soul, a storm’s tormented memories, my unspoken burden.

I stand more so a lighthouse than a pillar.

Even within the darkest storm’s depths, there is always a glimmer of light.

I am the last of a very much dying breed.

And endangered species scars and addictions.

But none are left to listen as we are moments to a bygone kin.

If only you would shut the fuck and listen

You may learn something.

Nothing but the pages shall remain.

JPR, is a Southern Gothic writer.

His work has been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Disturb The Universe, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Punk Noir Magazine, Spill The Words Press, Impspired Magazine, Piker Press and the Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.