The Renegade

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The sweet scent of freshly-cut grass, and the familiar groan of a nearby lawn mower were like fine wine to my nostrils and music to my ears.

After a five-year stretch on the inside, living on the run is freedom, but also hell. A Darwinian existence. One step worse than death.

With no change of clothes, I stink from my own piss, shit, and sweat, and when I sleep on the ground ants and blowflies crawl on my face—thinking I’m dead the blowflies try to lay eggs on my flesh.

I’m running low on food, only eating what I can steal from stores or scavenge from dumpsters.

My drinking water comes from a building’s downspout or from a nearby drainage ditch.

I’m wanted by the long arm of the law—for escaping custody for a murder charge that I didn’t commit.

Some say it may be a better life in jail, so I should to turn myself in.

But what do they know?

Certainly it would be better than this life I have now.

But this way is my way, and this way, even if I die on the streets and my soul is carried across the great divide by a flock of crows, it’s better than giving my body and soul to the cowardly FBI.

I’m like a Coyote, escaping capture,  always on the run, but at least I’m free.

– Poet Stoker

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Ballad of The Black Hound Of Depression

Along life’s bumpy dirt-covered road there’s an animal you ought to know well, he’s wrought with terror, and born from thunder, during the howling winds of hell. His eyes have a ruby red glow, his coat is slick and fine. He’s called the black hound of depression, or so some people say, and no amount of medication can scare the black hound away. It would mean your demise, so please people be wise, do not allow the black hound inside your mind. On some windy night you’ll awake with a fright and onto the city bridge you’ll find.
Leaping to your death, you think, is the only escape to keep the hell-hound at bay. Downward you’ll plunge into the great abyss, giving the water below a sapphire kiss.
Your mind’s videotape spins it’s last reel, the final frame will show the black dog, still nipping at your heels. ~ Poet Stoker

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