What's the Point? Poems by Daniel Holmes III Against the bullet craved wall, the firing squad is aimed and ready. Maybe it could have ended differently, Maybe i could have saved millions, Maybe I could have entertained. But I suppose it wouldn't have mattered, not directly. Maybe this thing that i have done with that hand-me-down gun, was the best thing that anyone could of done. To not show hope and make a smile, not even a laugh or groove. Maybe, Just maybe I did something that showed them what they needed to see. That we are all damn after all, through all the fortune and fame we all still fall. You Gotta Hit It Break your hand over my face. Rake my back with your nails. Crack my ribs with your teeth. Don't leave me sleeping soundly, come over and uncurl me. That's how the light gets in, and how the radiation warms the organs. Do it to me till there is no matter left, just the scent of my energy. Cause you can't fall in love with my physical beauty. What Do the X-Rays Show? The world doesn't owe you a god damn thing. So stop whining. No! Stop!, Arson isn't the answer to healing the sulfuric acid wounds. You can try and find the poetry in all the brutality, but it will only make painful frostbite on your fist. And in the pain you will start a process in that thick head of yours. One that will cut you up, piece by piece. I bet you they will find something in between the cut bones. Hate! Yes Hate, because remember what we learned from the cold streets. That Hate is not a verb or an adjective. It is a substance. And you my friend are filled with it.