Thrusts

When I masturbate
I think of how many
hungry mouths I've fed,
and lost children
have fled from my black dick
down hollow throats,
into lubricated condoms,
onto chests, into loose vaginas,
and tight assholes,
attempting to impregnate,
to procreate something--
like dry-humping air with no hands.
It was not meant to be:

a child who will never become anything
but failed mess to his disilllusioned parents,
who pisses his bed with American Flag sheets,
in hopes their son's flames will not torch it--
then he'd REALLY be anti-American;
a child who will become President
of something, but not the U.S., but
the local gang,
sharing his teen sister with his boys
atop a pool table
in daddy's basement,
covering the scent of semen
with pungent yet sweet minerals
found in Lysol while he sits
on a cigarette-burned couch
playing X-Box.

This is what we've become.
Living on the Wild Side,
fucking the fuck out of a dumb fuck
just to say we fuck.
And though my name has 7 letters,
I'm still a 4-letter word to family.
Is that what they are?
Family.
These are the ones that we love.
These are the ones we try to not emulate.
These are the ones that attempt to control.
Their futile attempts at love and trying to
define IT wastes words and depletes my serotonin,
denying meds, cutting and burning and purging
my insides like a back-alley abortion
on a black mongoloid teen.

But I don't complain.
I celebrate every day
with memories of how you made it an art:
using me like black canvas covered in foodstamps,
with your soot-covered boots flaking
onto my back, while your thighs chaffed
my young neck.
Thrusting in.
Thrusting in.
Thrusting in!!!
Then you ask me why did I want to die
as you crawled into my bed
threatening to fuck me with a curling iron
if I said a word.
"Hush little baby, don't you cry. . ."
"And if you cry or say a goddamned word. I swear to God, I will kill you..."
And you wonder why I think bad thoughts
or jaded like an emerald would like to be?
I didn't choose this for myself,
you did.