Watch me as I fall
without you.
I've spent years
perfecting this dark energy;
you are not the first
to leave me longing.
Watch closely.
I can build a statue
from ashes,
inhabit order
surrounded
by chaos.
Watch as I consume,
without myself,
myself.
I can fall,
but I cannot fail.
Watch.
You only scratched
the surface
of who I was
and am,
but you let loose this
agony -
my flood,
my fuel.

There is no truth
Only perception

We live in a world full of it
What we deem to be a truth
Is merely the majority of the perceived

Couldn't one say though that there is only truth?

Isn't every input my senses relay to me as real to me as anything can be?

The paradox is that there is no truth and only truth

How can there be truth when
the world only exists through the perception of one's senses?

And how can there be nothing but truth when my senses exist to receive the world as it is?

She looks into my eyes
as if searching for my feelings
for a hint of my disposition today
can’t she tell by the softness of my voice
the sweet things I say
can’t she sense my love  
in these moments together
or
are we both really alone
and this union a figment?

It is as if she is wondering
in her little mind behind her amber eyes
what it is like being human
as I wonder what is like being feline.

Parallel parking and green from my rings,
these are a few of my least favorite things.
Crumbs in the bed and the toilet seat up,
coffee grounds left at the end of my cup.

Crinks in my socks and cricks in my neck,
not enough funds to cover the check.
Old wilting flowers and ***** brown snow,
roaches and rats and the ugly black crow.

Ranting and raving because I feel ******,
sitting alone at my party of pity.
Wasting good time when there's not much to spare,
kidding myself that I don't really care.

Doing such damage is useless and crude,
and it all boils down to my own attitude.
One things for sure and it's perfectly clear,
if I end the party they all disappear.

Let the music free your spirit
  when you hear it
   it takes control
    within your soul.

Let the music live inside you
  let it guide you.
   Each day a song
    you take along.

Let the music always lead you
   let it need you.
    Given a chance
     life is a dance.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?