The unorthodox are the true prophets
for their ways are those of the future,
so in the now, most kings get their head cut off.

But as death is the greatest prophet,
for it never fails to come true,
their martyrdom proves their ways truer than the footsteps of their fathers,
so in the face of adversities;
never be afraid to be a lonely Jesus on the Cross.

burn the light of fire
and wax the ears of injustice.

chide the moon
and bid ado to the reckless sun.

count the blessings of misfortunes
and wave verbs in the air--
breathing the hopeful breaths of married sandals

Label the pains of a billion rain drops and fawn the feathers
of a nightingale over the glory of failed
triumphs known as yesterday.

break the hands of a wristwatch and make a ******* of time--
for through the God in Satan was how Earth was won.

I saw a picture of two people kissing.
Their fingers entwined.
Their lips apart.
Smoke billowing from one mouth to another.

I looked away.

No.
What?
This picture isn't meant for me.
Why?
Show this to someone else.
Who should I show it to?
I don't know, anyone else.

I saw a picture of two people kissing once.
My eyes hastened over it.
It didn't feel like it was meant for me.
I rejected the sight of love.
It, quite frankly, repulsed me.

It looked too much like a train wreck.
It tasted too much like scotch.

I poured myself another.

*I would rather brave the headache alone,
Thank you very much.
There's the door.

The branch of my thought stream bursts higher and higher
This hailing; writer's brainstorm fueling the fire.

Some words of mine
Aren't meant to admire,
Though some I take pride in
And relive their desire.

Nevertheless, all words are children from this tree.
Where foreign pieces of myself are revived and set free.

Each leaf buds from the words that I choose
Joining in growth
For a fabulous muse.

I imagine a hill, at the top is this tree.
One with bright leaves of red, yellow, and green.
It stands bent and crooked in its peaceful way,
And in the sweet breeze does it soft and lullingly sway.