whisk me away on a ship that's not there.
To an island full of gators! that have been covered in hair.
exploring misty mountains! and climbing epic trees!
diving to the bottom, of the air in the breeze.
imagine a life like that, think of life full of tales!
fighting great monsters, that has a full nine tails!
take me away to a life just with you,
to a world of bickering, but never between two.
now the Lord calls us in, to sleep in her kites.
dreams of flying high, and falling in love with the night.
as you dream away beneath me, I wonder sad and clear.
what comes of tomorrow, if the air is mighty queer?
do we stay inside our castle and find an evil spy?
or go outside in the gales?
and let our imagination,
take flight.

Isolation within my mind,
Stuck in my kell, gasping at the heat
Working till death to finish my design,
Running late, borderlines to meet.
A hero of management,
An Hr call left at the tone.
Stuck in my cubicle fortress.
The place I'm forced to call home.

When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.

Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action  I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.

night just wants some sun and the sun wants to sleep
but neither can get either with being alone every week.
some people sleep all alone every night
and that's what scares me to death.
am I one of these fools,
or can I follow these rules.
and that's why I'm so scared of my bed.
the monsters in the closet are just my memory's in deposit.
so I can sleep like the rest of the dead.
i know i'm not one
to laugh or complain
but weirdly my pain,
is the only thing
that wants to keep me sane.
for better or worse, we all have a Cain.
who would stick us in the heart.
if only he could remain.

I built a prison of paper,
But I willingly let it stand.

To keep my self tethered
To these words only I can understand.

It keeps out the angels,
And keeps my demons in.

So no one can be affected,
From the enemy hidden within.

It's a fortresses built on lies,
with foundations crumbling down.

But I'm happy with being crushed,
As long as you can never frown.

Who knew life would last so long.
so tedious and constant in aging.
( birth - one - two - … - dead )
And if someone knew how long it would last,
Why would they sign that contract,
on the dotted line on an oak desk with
all too important looking business men greedily grinning.
(the devils favorite disguise)

Who knew of the beating of the heart-
so exciting and focused on one lovely face.
(or set of lips)
Like a party with a spinning bottle,
Soon to be the pulse of the first date.
And first night cashed in bed,
rolled over from exhaustion- excitement.
(a steady rhythm takes on different meanings here)

Who knew that words would be so tough.
so damnable and lackluster
(until they line up just right.)
And poems a love-hate-multi-night-stand.
where we always bicker and fight,
but always come back for one more line.
or in my case,
nothing at all.

Everyone always expects a butterfly,
When they find that fearless cocoon;
Hanging over certain death,
And inviting a birth from a new womb.
They expect a sunrise to arise,
To dry out their wings and take flight.
Glittering generalities caught in icarus's wings.
People expect the best from your worst,
And you'll expect that that's best.
Yet this expectation leaves us cursed.
Like the monarchs, who dance under the sun;
When moths are birthed, they dance under a dead one.

I reject the notion of expected beauty,
I reject this reality that-
I need to dance in the sun,
Shine bright beneath the trees,
And fly high to melt my wings,
I despise this idea
Because like the moths,
I will dance among the stars
Between the moons of Jupiter,
And sing with selene in the night.

I will burst from my cocoon
Not in your beauty,
But in mine

life is lonely.
and death gives terrible company.
so-
Would you like some dinner?

In the bar where sad things grow,
           Where(s) Happiness(?),
is pumped in Like champagne through IV.
I-found-us-strung-together-again-
          “ Now
I’m the type of person
                                 to-
                         fall-
**** near in love with gratitude. ”
“ Like that glancing smile,
Hidden behind a mask of bourbon and-
all ten hail marys you replaced
                 with ****** ones. ”
“ And if gratitude gets you this far?
Just imagine what the *** is like. ”

Maybe, one day; when I grow old,
I’ll see past quarrels slowly fold.  
Maybe, one day: when lights grow dim,
We’ll all sit quiet to hear one somber hymn.
Maybe, one day: the rain stops pouring;
You’ll be with me- our hearts left soaring.

I keep a garden of weeds,
They're so hard to pull out,
But the always seem to grow back.
Seldom I follow the guides,
That tell me what to plant.
The seeds I sow,
Always lose their row.
And everything fades away to black.

All things ancient are once born young.
All things secret are shared by tongue.
All things hatred are worn with love.
All things whispered are sung by doves.
All things stone always come undone.

Sooner or later it was bound to happen.
I fell for you,
                     Again.
In a way I’m quite tired of this dance,
                Waltzing around,
         Spinning,             dipping,
   A two step.                     a  salsa.
         Rhythmic              sadness-
                   Tiptoeing love.
In a way I wish this love had never happened,
I know the impossibility for what I hope for.
Yet everyday I just wait for another song
In our ballroom of text messages and google docs,
The band plays a taunting song-
In the key of heartbreak,
And timed out to the tempo of our thoughts.
Even within our gala the other dancers snicker,
For I have no partner,
And your love is dancing with another.

“My friend was cremated today”
“Being a mom is so ******* hard”
“Not everyone follows american culture”
“I JUST ORDERED PIZZA FOR THE FIRST TIME”
“Its hard looking at people around you progressing with life and being happy while you’re stuck battling mental health”
“I’m going to collapse this week. My bunny is going to die”
“I have deleted my Facebook of 6 years for the bettering of my health and to focus on myself”
“After 1 year and 6 months I finally gave my girlfriend her first ****** ever last night!”
“I love my girlfriend”
“I’m so happy right now”
“Nursing is not an honorable profession”
“Happy Birthday Bro…”
“Let me sleep”
“I’m heavily considering not fighting for parental rights”
“Just shaved my ****** hair off.. And **** do I look good”
“This is What a Lifetime of Abuse Looks Like”
“I feel like I’m not going to amount to anything”
“I feel lost”
“I haven’t shaved or trimmed my yoo hoo since the pandemic started”
“I just want some ******* tortillas”
“I miss you”
“People cannot handle it if you don’t drink with them. Why???”
“Let’s Pray for peace and comfort this year”
“I’m just not made for this world”
“I could’ve been killed today, but some how I am still here...”
“I am a bad person”
“I’m going to graduate college without having one friend or relationship”
“Missing my best friend...”
“Is it just me dealing with constant unhappiness and frustration”
“I messed up my grades”
“Stop Dwelling.”
“My Father is Dying, And I Wish I Was Upset About it”
“People who abused others emotionally deserve everlasting mental aches!”
“Have you ever felt special to someone and realize you weren’t that special after all?”
“I wish I was a cup or 2 bigger.”
“I wish I had a do-over for high school and college”
“I feel like everyone these days is lonely”

autumn skies and pumpkin pies.
great orange fields, large in size,
leaf turns to leaf as gold comes to see;
what excitement to behold, and how happy to be.
nippy air and extra layers of sleeves.
bitter cold air as my breath comes alive.
wisping away, fast deep into loving lives.
Oh October is here and I feel just happy!  
to be with everyone with hair blowing shaggy.
I love this time, and I hope i explained why.
it's these
autumn skies
and
sweet salient sighs.

I remember the lights going off in the brains of young poets.
Deep in the dank streets of New York or Columbia college.

When the blues and twos would come and round up
The beatniks snapping to the howl of a homosexual mind.

When the generational attitudes of those too old to know,
Control the ****** acts of “violence”, or
The deepening scars of our philosophies.

When the urbanization of historical prowess leads to
Gentrified gypsies of the diamond deserts and endless skyways

When the great in the country isn’t good enough
For the red hats and spray tanned millionaires.

When the stocks of corporate dragons burn down
The attempts of upstart knights and online kingdoms.

When the politicians of old become the scapegoats
For the ironically gerontocratic few.

When the female few who dared couldn’t find their lost primaries
Or control the lifeblood leaking out of the Strait of Hormuz.  

When the powerful and powerless fought in-between
The dejected and all too often ignored.

When the powered halogen lights flooded prison yards of
Wrongly convicted and murderously in need of help.

When the San Francisco clubs lit up with muzzle flash
And the dancers lay weeping in their blood.

When the schools became places to duck and cover
Or learn to trip a friend when running from a gun.

When parkland high became a manufacturing ground
For casings, tears, and candlelight vigils.

When the American dream came combo packaged
And supersized with obesity and unemployment.

When the education of the youth became about
The profit margin in a spreadsheet full of debt.

When the sun sets in the smoke filled horizons
And sleepless rest settles on the western front.

Everyday I live,
Is another day away from your smile.
Hidden, shy, sly in style-
Masquerading behind silk and gold,
Splendid, lovely.
Milk and honey.
The clouds jealous,
Of the softness in your eyes,
Deep pools of cautious curiosity-
Bright but sharp in disguise.
Simple elegance doesn’t do you grace,
Simple potency doesn't do you measure.
But I hope to one day owe to you this pleasure.

It started out as most things do.
At a distance.
In the back of my mind.
Something to wonder about,
But never define.
Most of the time it's just "hello",
Or "Shalom"
Or "what book"
And their reply.
And, it continued, as most things do,
Way too fast,
And,
Way too soon.
Thinking back now they are a wonder in my thoughts.
About-
What could've been.
If I took the chance of knowing them.
And,
Why do I miss them.
When I've got all but squat.

"Hindsight,
is 20/20."
As the tag-a-longs
And dingbats like to recite.
Well that's dumb- 20/20 is average!!
This is outrageous -even our idioms our idiotic-
So I propose a new saying,
And yes, who is the 17 year old white boy
To say anything about anything.
But hear me out,
How about instead, we say,
"Hindsight, the unluckiest symptom of consciousness,
and a hell in its own right"
Okay yeah, well, maybe it IS a bit wordy,
And yeah, okay, maybe it IS a TAD too cynical.
But since when has a teenager been anything BUT
A self-proclaimed cynic.

With stars too far to telephone,
And when telegraphs aren't a thing anymore.
We gotta make our own futures,
But when we're riding along through our
Generation of hate,
Or lovely liberalism.
Try not to check the rearview mirror

miss a few beats,
mistime a jump.
make a mistake-
it's part of the fun!

tired of these late assignments,
although I make good grades.
bored of mundane busy-work,
even if it helps my brain.
I'm interested in the arts,
and running is fun too.
but boy oh boy how great it is,
to sit down, and be with you.

people have written about everything,
nothing has been left to be found.
I've tried to find what wasn't leftover,
but it's gone.

there's been poet's and scribes,
prophets and writs;
but they're gone,
for now.
until another one reincarnates.
again.

love is nothing new to us.
and war never changes too.
but what we write is just rhetoric,
maybe that is too.

what's written makes no sense.
but there's no more writing to be found.
weirdly how I'm writing,
what should've seemed so profound.

i try really hard not to cry a lot.
and i try to stop myself from thinking about anymore sort of losses.
and i try really really hard not to realize the loss my dog is more hurtful than the loss of my late grandfather.
because,
there's a difference in-between spontaneity and fore-told doom regarding loss.
there's a difference between having someone on my bed every night,
and the loss of humanity that Alzheimer turns you into.
i don't know which one i'd rather choose,
another 6 years of knowing they aren't there anymore.
or another dead dog.

Steady, we go along, stable, we seek our comforts.
And beyond us, the rest of everything lives.
Surrounding our dinner tables a conflict festers,
As my father yells across at my uncle about
The hate of our current leaders.
(i leave my eyes at my plate)

Consistent, we see ourselves, ugly, we see another side.
Another side I frequent is a “shooting range”,
Where before the curriculum starts for the year,
We learn how to fight against a shooter inside.
As I learn the thoughts of shakespeare,
And recite the constitution.
(i fear for when the shooting begins again)

Lost in a known life, I cower beneath those who stood taller.
The fervent few who knew history and what cycles it spawned.
The powerful ‘leaders’ who promised a better tomorrow,
Corrupted by constitution, and empirical deduction.
We stand side by side as family in the face of terror-
Be it red, blue, donkey or elephant.
(i know the lies they spread and still follow synced)


Oblivious we march in protest to ourselves.
Not knowing the start or how our story began.
Impervious to outside influence we are herded into ideologie,
And fed the grass and grains of knowledge warped into ‘morality’
Undead beliefs cycle themselves to those of the generational heir,
And respawns in the minds of those too cowardly to accept something else.
Fact and fiction morph into each other-
And grey becomes all we can see.
(blinded by a light gray scaled, i see myself as no one and everyone as the same)

people always describe it as an "empty pit"
but that's just not true.
in essence, what it is,
is hunger.
the starvation of meaning,
and the force fed nature of depression.
it's bulimic in urge.
binge on cutting myself,
to purge myself of feeling.
it's always described as suppressing.
when,
in actuality it's just hopeless.
it's despair.
in the same way my dirt hued eyes won't make up
for the cracks formed from
the nights spent crying-
and
too many hailstorms.

She sits on the air, and talks with the breeze.
She walks with that style, and mocks me as I freeze.
I swear she stopped a rain storm,
And you could swear she just said no.
She's a mountain of power, and an engine of burning coal.
Those eyes sharp as glass, and slicker than some ice.
I swore to her I'd stop, but I kept it going on thrice.
I never knew she felt, I didn't think she could.
But I saw her there, weeping, and tugging, and pulling out her hair.
I knew then I was nothing, nothing to her, but pain,
taking away the joy, of her. My Beloved rain.

2 a.m.
I'm back again,
Nice to see you, old friend.
Why am I here?
I'm sorry I don't remember.
What am I doing?
I think hiding from the daylight.
What says that's alright?
Well nothings stopping me from staying up all night.

I’ve played the scene in my head-
Like the director's cut of his wife’s affair.
The bitterness of the metal,
The poisonous lead.
The expense of myself-
In a waste of pain.
Suicide isn’t the only answer,
It’s just the best option
Out of a cesspool of ****** ones.
Don’t tell me you’ll miss me if i’m dead-
When you won’t talk to me if I'm alive.

I am the first line
I am a different line
I prefer the first line
Well you’re wrong, the second one is better.
Nah nah you’re both wrong, line five is amazing.
Can we all just agree that line five is full of it?
Yeah I think most of us can, but line two might
Disagree.
I am the last line

A poem a day,
Keeps depressing thoughts away-
…
Too optimistic.

i haven’t slept in 36 hours,
it’s given me time, well- It’s given my brain time enough to deteriorate a bit and drop all my filters.
And i know now what the hell has been in my head whispering to me.
i hate myself.
   i hate myself because i have such a **** hard time trying to figure out if i feel, feel as in caring for someone. Wanting someone whenever, regardless.
i hate myself because i can’t beat myself, it’s like fighting a mirror, you throw a punch, the reflection goes right back at you.
i hate myself because of my life, 14 years isn’t the problem, the next 50 is.
i hate myself,
  Because i am myself, i’m me, and that’s all

why should I believe in a god?
for faith?
for comfort?
for power?
why should I pray for comfort?
to be happy?
to be useful?
to stand my ground?
why am I trying to go against the riptide,
why am I trying to staunch the flow?
why should I have my opinion?
if that's all I have to show.

poets are the greatest treasure hunters,
or maybe, they might be the happiest.
most likely the most fulfilled.

poets are the richest in nature.
or maybe, just the most aware.
most likely just the most sleep deprived.

poems are our greatest treasure,
like chests full of gold.
instead of gold it's words.
that we crave to hold.

poets are the hungriest.
for emotion, life, and fear.
or maybe,
just the calmest.
sitting quietly.
amongst their peers.

molly's hair, **** hair.
show's the bi-polar,
but not the bear.
molly's hair, **** hair.

give it to me straight,
I already write in stanza's and metaphors.
so give it to me plain.
you expect me to be who I am.
but push me to be someone i'm not.
what do you want?
what do,
I want.
i'm not sure.
the only thing I wanted,
was for you to stop wanting.
me,
to  not be.
me.
maybe I also,
want me,
to not
be.

I'm just another cat,
with hopes of living in a house.
or ruling the dog,
but all I sadly can do.
is barely catch a mouse.

it's hard to write when you don't feel.
because then you just throw around words with meaningless weight .
i try to embrace my trace amounts of hate,
but even then.
nothing comes, weird how that most seem.
I'm happy...I think,
well i'm not sad at the least.
so, then, what am I?
or,
what should I feel?
should i be happy because i'm not sad,
or sad because i have to be sad in order to be happy.
or do i need either to feel either?
I just don't know.
or,
i just don't feel

Sincerely written words about death,
are hilarious.
Primarily because of the irony in it-
Being sincere about death means to accept it?
and if we did that,
Funeral homes would be out of business.
and Oncology would be a much happier field
to work in.
My point is, heroism is just fatalism with extra steps.
Either way it doesn't matter the outcome.
As it will be whatever it is, regardless. (ironically)
And this is all to say nothing about the gun to my head,
and the trigger pull workout I have to do,
Doing mental hurdles and jumping jacks to not give in.

a poems like a book,
or you can say it's something more.
like a diary, or journal, shared out for the hordes.
you could say it's something less,
like handled wire and mesh.
nothing new and quite bored,
but I know it's something more.
our poems are our thoughts.
( let's be honest- ours are mostly moors)
they show just how we've fought,
the waves and tumbling chords.
many bring apart the strands,
of a rug so riled and ran.
something like our hearts,
flowing out between our hands.
it's a wonder how much they hurt,
to write- to read- to find.
it seems it's just the way,
that poems like to be designed

You made me happy,
now all I am is sad.

sometimes I wonder,
sometimes way to late at night.
I think about my plunder,
and my life before I had any real sight.
I ponder the actual point,
of life, god, and love.
I think about the way that life always blunders along,
a never ending train, and a never ending song.
when we fade away from time, from minds across the worlds.
I wonder if the earth remembers all our crimes,
from breaking hearts to stealing pearls,
we're all guilty from budding till we curl.
In many ways we're a flower,
in many ways we're not.
I wonder what they're seeing
and I wonder what their not.
i guess they wonder too, about life. probably a lot

Up in the trees,
Wind in the air,
Doesn't get much better.
Living without much care.

I'm too tired,
And It's going to get me fired.
My family doesn't work
My mother forces stuff on me like a ****.
My brother is dysfunctional and lazy
All my happy memories seem to be hazy.
I'm too tired to be bored and glad
Only sad.
I'm too distracted to see what's right,
I'm only really able to see what I did wrong.
My fathers half way crazy
And my brain is falling apart.
I'm too tired for your assignment.
Because I can't seem to get my life back into alignment

I don't want to grow up in a Podunk hick-billy town,
but I don't want to be part of the white bread, corn cooking crowd.
I want to be respectable,
a spectacle.
someone that's out there, hiding in her dreams.
I don't want to generalize my sentiments.
but i don't want say i'm still free.
i don't want to stay on my rails,
but i don't want to make my own trails.
i want to be dependable,
all sensible.
recollectable from all of everyone's memory's