Today in the game,
It shall be decided,
Society shall pick a winner,
The choice is clear,

Those who have the slightest issues,
They shall never be picked,
Those who pretend to defy the rules shall be saints,
Those who try to be perfect ,
They shall never achieve their dream,
In the game,

It is a fight to the death,
No matter who you are,
No matter who you thought you were,
You shall never win,
Nor will anyone else,
Society will always find your flaws.

Breathing slow.
Ebb and flow
Watch the tide
Come and go

Breathe a sigh
Seagull cry
Soaring above
Watch it fly

Breathing in
Sun on skin
Flying kite
Watch it spin

Breathe in deep
Watch clouds creep
Across the sky
Fall asleep

Cant let go
To the sky
To the stars

Wont let go
Of the bright meadow
filled with spring flowers

Never letting go
Of the long open road
Weaving through the field

Just hanging on
To the world

Until I have to
Let it go

maybe it's because i am not satisfied with who i am
maybe it's because i've fallen so from where i use to be
maybe it's because i let myself fall in love
maybe it's because i learned friendship, and trust, and hope and
with learning all these things, there was a consequence
a consequence that wasn't mine to serve
it's because after knowing what these concepts were,
it was impossible but to not notice their absence
i am not sad because of my unresolved trauma, i am sad because my coping skills were people and people leave
and sadness is present
sadness does not pause for you
sadness does not let you prepare
sadness rips into your chest and makes its home there
i'm sad because i'm not my own reason to live
i'm sad because i want to stay sad
because it's safe
because it's the only constant in my life

Stay you.
Stay true to you.
In all perspectives, you wonderful through and through.

Stay you.
Keep the warmth in your heart.
From all perspectives, you're a beautiful example of love from God.

It shows in your action.
It shows in your heart.

Stay you.
One lovely and delightful person.

In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.

And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.

And ****!
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.

For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.

No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.

Good on You (a love poem),
this one, is, good, on you.  

phrase uttered, measured, apace,
each comma,
a paused breath of:

admiration, enveloped by
a secret pleasure coating,
saucier prepared,
the base, the pleasured secret in this
mans minds eye unseen.

each comma,
precisely the carbon copy of the
comma curve of dark hair that
falls from a forehead down to the chin,
in a museum quality photograph,
as if it was intended to hold, contain,
your sly blunt moody,
and full plated whimsy,
when that half-smile poesy is in place.

good on you,
slow please,
not
goodonyou.

did you think, I did not have, a special bottle,
a Grand Cru,
a pinot noir, in the reserve,
inside the locked cellar of me,
to be used to anoint mine own
English Duchess of Burgundy?

well and proper aged,
but unlabelled,
till you provided
the appelation, the domaine,
good, on, you.  

the bottle dusty, the feelings, not.
if we never meet, matters not,
the gentility, tous les bons mots,
good in you,
hid in in all of the
astounding incredible poems
I well-addicted need,
those archeological mounds of a life,
I excavate and well heed,
going from one to the next,
me, the bumbling bee,
pollenating, following the path of the
watermarked tracks of
the King's Cross,
alas, they do not offer a couchette,
from Terminal 4 to London Bridge

unlike a teenager
happy to confess,
I am even younger,
an old fool, a geezer,
in love with a museum quality smile,
as he totters down to the Tottenham Hale station,
to catch the blue colored line, to the station after Vauxhall)
(oh dear, what's it called again?)
walking 10 to 2, saying ta to all
who assist his
two hands on an old man's bent feet,
steering the wheelhouse heart through its tubes

this is an undedicated poem,
retuned and returned,
addressee unknown, yet I know
by the greening dew droplets decorating faces,
that come so easy,
not a one wrung out,
you know
the who's of the true ownership,
the clarification,
in the bread crumbs,
fully disclosed,
left by me,
but for me,
in order to retrace my steps,
to find the railing,
when the steady on need arises

some Tuesday next,
will disembark from a riverboat,
at the old Tate,
spending my afternoon,
staring at an imaginary museum quality photograph,
till the guard surly reminds the pesky Yank,
its past closing time,
the man who will not be moved,
for already he, past overcome,
so why be thinking on why leaving,
for he will only be back again tomorrow.

so different.

mine, simple declarative sentences,
typically matter of fact,
so **** presumptuous,
those ill mannered,
know it all Ameddicans.

yours, lace doilles,
in a pub, with Hilda and Bill,
drinking pale ale,
from a porcelain cup,
and I am laughing,
Why?

It is all,
Good on Us,
a, love, poem,
indeed,
no kidding kid.