this is the last mile of the long way
       i'm homeward bound
my bubbly resolve now holds sway
      i'm on the home stretch
this is where my dream comes true
       i'm firm and positive
this time around i took the right turn
      and i must surely get the prize
this is where we smile and are happy
     i'm one of the chosen few
this time the glow is huge and luminous
and my struggle leads to the next struggle
     this time my reward is certain
she waits for me with a glass of cold water
lodged deep inside the pupils of her eyes
     and i know i dreamed it all up again

There are thousands of us here
In this small part of the internet.
We are thousands,
Voices of all natures.
I wonder how many in all
The corners of the world?
Here alone are thousands
Which plant seeds of philisophical change
And the evolution of our society.

How many words will it take
To declare the state of humanity
As the world goes deaf and blind?

Every once in a while I see a poem
With a national headline,
Some black kid shot by a white cop.
Then the poem disappears,
The poet and his or her fellow
Writers retreat inward
Jumping into nothingness
Of feelings and self loathe.
We carry a banner with a million
Words and nothing to say in unision.
Oh God, is this the path of the poets?

But suddenly I realise
And I see I am just as shallow
As the next,
The pulse of the world will not
Beat with poets,
Though poets can be the racing pulse
Of change.

Let the poets unite on common ground!
Cry out against something in unision.
We are thousands of voices
That cannot yell.
How many of us here on the internet?

How hard is it to rise against
The machine and bring
About change truly to the soul,
To see ourselves rise up
With our words?
What we speak we will write,
What change we write
Will give birth to humanity.

Bury me deep in your mind
under the skin of a memory
within the breaths of a kiss
still warm on your lips
bury me

Bury me above your chest
below the walls of your heart
and close to a burning plain
bury me of love insane
sensitive still to your stare
still crazed by your touch
bury me

Everything is art.
The ground you walk on, your cloud of thoughts in the sky
And the sunset's a splash of orange paint, spilled on your canvas waiting to dry
See everything just wants you to stop and notice it..
Go get your paint brush and show me, what you're currently in awe with

Everything is great
Honest words that come easily,
And the way a person looks when they dance freely
Everything is great....
but I'm not fine?
And everything is art...
but all i see are random lines.

Every day is filled with something new.
Only difference is I'm feeling more restless
I tried taking half a pill and woke up
With the same migraine i slept with
Oh everything's a blur.
Traffic lights and busy nights,
Thoughts pounding; thoughts pleading
Everything's a mess
Even the structure of this poem
Thoughts crying, thoughts screaming
Oh everything i say
Just comes across as so awkward
I tried to write a poem about art
About love
About stars
And pretty words
I tried to rhyme my love for you
With some random **** like dove shampoo
Oh everything's coming out unfiltered and sorry its unloaded all onto you..

Maybe everything's just in our minds..
Our fears, our delusions..
I'm sure the universe is too busy existing as art; to be plotting against all us humans..
And you are wonderfulll, so beautiful
It wouldn't be a typical poem, if i didn't mention that at all

Not everything is black and white
Sometimes there's drops of pink and grey
But when they told me to paint them a picture of what love meant to me,
I took a pen and some paper, and just spelled out your name.

A friend a friend
I repeat in my head

It's just a question
My number isn't much

So I wrote it
For you

Because that's what friends do..
Except my mind
Says other things
..

The last to leave
the ghetto standing,
the flames
came in waves.  

Wildfires,
light up
the night skies,
horizons
Are those fire flies?
the sounds of sirens?
charred ash
black,
or
the sound of silence?

The phoenix
&
rubble
conundrum.

The standard prose,
bloodstained clothes,
and holes,
where things used to go.

Those pieces don’t fit anymore,
a malleable man,
that couldn’t stand the heat.
a flash in the pan.

We’re slightly charred by the situation,
tarnished,
yet not quite burn’t.

The smoke
smells fresh
in the
green grass.

As the time,
passed.

They made the most of those fertile soils.
They spoiled the landscapes,
with mistakes made
for the price
of oil.

Just set me on fire and let me burn
with the earth.