Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
      once said, “Poets are ******, but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run
      dry…

Can you hear him?

(LOUDER!!!)

Are you even listening?

What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?

A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
      staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
      (who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
      a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
      but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.

Dance speaks louder than words.

The TVs so loud that
You can’t hear me knocking
On your door.
But that doesn’t matter,
Because you don’t want to
Hear the door, because
Who’s telling you what?
Good news is finite.
And you heard it
All, you suppose.
Bad news has a monopoly
On the news now, from
Here to the moon, and
Bad news?
It squeezes itself into
Something as pure and simple
As a hospital room
Filled with newborn babies.
Because even when
You haven’t had food to ****,
You cry because
You have to ****.
And your Mom
Finds it cute.
The wailing, all
That suffering that can’t
Be worded, pain like
A gallon of water
Without the gallon
To hold it, it sprawls
Baby…

Wah!
Wah!
Wah!

But you’ll find your words one day,
And talk real nice,
And maybe go to college,
But guess what baby?
There are no survivors.
So what do we do?
We turn the TV louder.

Anxiety
I can feel it coming
That shakiness in my hands that begins to spread throughout my body.
My heart beat begins to pick up speed. Getting louder & louder, until it's all I can hear.
Anxiety
Worry fills my every thought
And those thoughts consume me.

(a.d)

Have you ever felt
A compelling urge
To hug somebody?
To just wrap your arms around them
And never let go?
You just want to drop everything
And hug that person,
Touch them,
Embrace them.
You just want to be near them.
Forever.
No talking.
Just hugging.
Because you seem to say more,
Have deeper discussions,
When you’re in each other’s arms
Then when conversing aloud.

That’s the kind of bond
I want to have with someone
Some day.
Because the simplest of things
Speak louder
Than any words
Ever will.

If my mind refuses to carry on
It will be reminded
again,
what will be done
must be done
and I will force these thoughts
to remain
until this day is forgotten
and all other days
that have come
before it
Should words ever fail me
again,
my actions
will speak
louder.