A culture of addiction and ignorance
Pushing poppies instead of daisies
The only light snakes around the corners
Of carefully drawn blinds.
Red eyes.
Tongue tied and silent
A supernova behind the eyes of an innocent
The memories of masochism and open hands
Fingers pressed together
Cruel intentions caked in the creases of palms.
They haunt the night time
Is it night time?
Mildew.
The smell of apathy with a hint of persistence
Which sets in once the blackness starts to seem periwinkle
And geography is etched into ****** finger tips
And skinned knees.
Every penny flowing free
Into the crook of your elbow.
Anything to silence. Anything to feel.
Hope and healing are out of reach
But the apples still shine in your eyes when you dream
And then everything seems a little closer.

We still call the homeplace mom's
Calendar in the kitchen unchanged

Two years past
The old clock ticking

Branches tapping against a window
Iron Mountain through frozen rain

Like a silverback
White along the spine
Cold and silent

Strong against another winter.

r ~ 2/2/15

with a quiet voice I sing
my praise for Thee

my heart beating its beat
my mouth songs harmony

I sing a song for Thee
that carries on till eternity
even if my words are lost at sea
I have whispered my love for Thee

She likes an archaeologist
cos he does it in the dirt

and the older she gets
the more he likes to flirt

She likes the way he smells
in a faded work shirt

hard and lean
but not mean
just a little bit assertive

He still let's her roll
her own cigarettes

and handles her gently
like a gold statuette

while they dance
with the shadows
down low

you know.

I don't know the word
for this restless almost breathless
feeling  in my chest -

the opposite of a bluebird
- a ******* crow, at best

a last call cawing
or is it a raven's kraa-kraa

this feeling -
like a shadow in clothes
- a fly in the eye of those

who pray for repose
of my soul.

doubt creeps into me
it's been months since
one of my poems have trended

why is my writing no longer resonating with people?
does hello poetry hate me?
should I just stop writing on this site?
irrational questions flurry trough my mind.

i take a deep breath and listen to my heart.
I write because it's what I do,
and I share my writing so that I may be helpful to someone else
which includes me helpful to me.

I write because my heart to ease my doubt
I write to connect with the Creator
I write, so I do not drown in my words

I breathe more deeply and let go of comapiring  myself to others
I do not need outside validation to experience that
I am a child of the Beloved
so I "let go and let God"

I'll keep coming back to Hello Poetry
and keep writing to be true to my own heart
thanks for letting me share

I'm a white, male,
American dreamsicle
who says "****"
way too much
to not be cool.

I read about my father issues
on my mother's face.
I hate things and people
because the news told me to.
Art is ****** and ****** is art;
when Billy killed Sue,
my heart raced.
Do drugs with me
or do none at all;
promise me when we're high
we won't fall.

There are ******* on the street
and the cops are shooting them.
There are ******* kissing
and old, white men are scared.
There are mentally ill people
and they are "seeking attention".
There are women with voices
and old, white men are scared.

I am an American Dreamsicle:
cold, unhealthy, and killing your kids.
You can buy me for 40% off
and I promise to take 60% of your ideals.
I am what my parents don't want me to be
and that is the appeal.
Little do I know, I am every thing you are
and that is my cancer.

An Oklahoma politician
wants to outlaw hoodies
in the hood

It's true, it must be
I read it in Fox News  :)

I'd sooner be in Missouri or Cleveland
or New York City where you don't have to
wear a hoody or raise your hands to get shot


There are other things more pressing
than hoodies in the hood
that don't need ironing

like hoods in suits
and the elephant in the room
that needs shooting.