The cemetery was my circus I found
After outgrowing fantasy and the playground.
Golden afternoons in the country after school,
My blood having no resemblance, no ancestors,
To all the Sutton's and Smotherman's and Suddeth's
Who here resided with Tennessee pride. Inside and outside.
The still silence of my childhood cemetery carried an eerie air. I wanted to be here.
The peaceful calm, it called me back,
The king cawing crow, attending in black.
As for any of the lost, perhaps content, Confederate souls,
Who have yet to cross over, lamenting or dozed.
I suspect now, that it was I who startled those ghosts.
My blood, my frequency, my scent of the coast,
Sent from a Union ancestry my vibration still boasts...
How unexpected was I to those Tennessee ghosts.

I loved you then; I love you now.
In times of chaos; Without a sound.
I loved you black; I love you white.
With rhyme or reason; Without a right.
I love you New York; I love you Paris.
I love you boldly or embarrassed.
I love you luck; By Divine Fate.
I'll love you after I forget your face.
I love you blue; I love you true.
I love you whether I'll be with you.

Flowers, oh so fearless.
Featherly, inviting fountains.
Gifts for all who seek for it,
From the trees to the mountains.
Buzzing bees relax to sit,
Upon a vibrant throne.
Within a world built from grit,
Femininity is shown.
Flowers, oh so fearless.
Opened to receive reverence.
No judgment cast, it seems at last,
A place for kind deliverance.

Maniacally,
The days and nights
Bleed together
Into a time frame
The insane
Tap into
That's a lot like infinity.
Vampiracally,
The years of
Infinity
Bleed together
Into an abysmal
Spiral
Of insanity.
Supernaturally,
Are our states of being.
How well
We blend in
With a dismal
Arrangement
Of plain people
In trains,
Checking their wrists
For the time
As they travel
Physically.
Naturally,
The three of us
Are bound to meet
At some point.
Tapping into
Hidden goldmines
Of psychological
Nuggets
That gleam
With prosperity,
As everything
Melts together
Again.
Everything is sacred.
Everything is connected.
Mining
For hidden connections
Ought to excavate
Feelings of wonder.
The caverns filled
With complex crystals
Of energetic
Freethought
Have long been
Paved over
By trains and
Linear brains
Improving on their
Transistors.
Maniacally and
Vampiracally,
The days and nights
Bleed together,
While the world below
Bustles about;
We appear to be
Just like one of them.
We may even check
Our watch.
Our conditions
Are congruent
In that they are
Nothing less than
Supernatural.

The heart can heal all.
That's why we fear
Opening it up
For a fickle other.
We can lose our
Best chance at
Self-defense.

I don't fear
The break,
So I send mine
On a plate.
Recipients are
Used to games.
I am, however,
Fiercely straight-forward,
With self-confidence
Coated in
Uncertainty. Vanity. Candy.
Recipients simply run from me.

This is why I focus on me,
Expired of all of my romances.
Thankful Universe gave us chances
To quickly flee the scene
Before the heart dances.
Lonesome creatures are courageous.

Used to next to nothing.
Silver spoon is rusting.
Growing where Life doesn't.
Giving in at adolescence.

I am not confessing,
I need not a blessing.
Restless mind is wrestling.
Disregarding outward dressing.

Patient soul is resting.
All these things I'm testing.
Life is interesting.
Stimulated, manifesting.

On a wheel that's spinning,
Reaching new beginning?
Callous circle grinning,
Reminding me that I'm not winning.

This heart I own
Has you to call home,
How I miss the
Hallowed halls
Of your soul.

Pressed against mine,
A fate so unkind,
That hearts could torment us to the bone.

The words you have spoken
Speak from the heart,
So I know then,
That this love that I feel
We both share.

And you did not ask,
Neither I,
Here at last,
That our paths would converge in this way.

I feel love come from you,
And I know mine does too,
We're here, not by chance,
Not at all.

Then if we must feel this
And are not now to kiss,
I will wait 'til I walk in your halls.

I was raised by a mentally ill father.
Because there is comfort in numbers,
I, too, was afflicted by a similar disorder.
It’s difficult to separate the person from the sickness,
Sometimes impossible.
Sometimes we become the shadowy monster,
Embrace it with wilted roses,
Knowing too well that of everything else,
The disorder will still be there,
Waiting.
My shadow has been dormant.
My father’s is still active,
Seeking.
Sometimes when we meet it’s like a perfect storm,
A tornado of comfort.
Someone understands the climate.
I take my father’s hand encouragingly,
He turns to run, squirrely,
The shadow greets me with open arms.
I love the shadow as much as I love the man.
After all, there is comfort in numbers.

Internal poetry while doing
Yoga.
I don't mean practicing
Yoga. I mean doing it.
Writing, because although
Yoga
Calmed my racing thoughts
And high electromagnetic frequency,
Additional
Judgmental,
Highly observant,
Rather foreign thoughts
Are returning.

The pirates pillaging
Sanity within
Are no match for the
Ancient Indian
And pre-Indian
Yoga and poetry.
In this day and age,
Yoga is heraled
For the stylish, revealing pants
Used for practicing.
As well as the many classes that reek of ego.

Poetry, on the other hand,
Has more or less gone obsolete.
They killed all the poets.

They have become replaced
By social media
Featuring those unsocialized with writing.
Now, when I need to hear the wisdom
Of a guiding angel,
All I hear
Is the pathetic language
Of the less fortunate in poetic freethought.
These discombobulated ghosts
Haunt me
When I hear far too many
Voices
And need stillness to compensate my illness.

These voices of the day, I fear,
Manipulate me in most unpleasant ways.
And being thinker, as I am,
Drawing conclusion and meaning
From everything I can,
A blessing and a curse --
Which, then again, are blessings nonetheless --
I cannot help but wonder
If this is part of a plan.

Orwell wrote of so not fifty years ago.
The language now constantly spoken,
As well as read,
As well as written,
Dumbing us down.
Losing touch with words of wisdom
In most trying of times.
This is what happens when

You **** off
All the poets.