Corruption
is an overflowing
abundance of inadequate language.

As few will fathom
the misleading of those in lead,
and those who think they see
may be mislead;
even more than those who don't.

Our ends
are never the beginning
madmen are not our conquerors
but instead the folly of commoners.

It was our lack of a auspicious aptitude
that begets us to lament
even the foggiest of concepts
beyond our notion to conceive even simplicity.

It was only eager creatures
that  yearned for the world to be theirs
so instead of uniting the kingdom;
we were segregated into classes
and left without language to communicate.

Losing time is my specialty
as I am a nation of one
that has no people or land
that must be amassed.

To sustain myself is the simple tidings
that would hardly fit
even a wanderer stranded on a mysterious island--
one where the tide brings in
the luxury drinking water
and a plateau of shifting sands.

The subtly of time
is a puzzle to me that I hardly understand,
as it's pieces seem too difficult to place
having no matching parts
to put them together.

Time has no place in our minds
but is everyone's jigsaw
without it; we may become complacent
or at least that's what
we've always been told.

I hope that the world
comes to see my mind
and hope for them
to pray for my life.

Because they are never going to offer
me their hand
I'm over here in a distant land.

Suffering off poverty--
a place named 3rd world country
and none of them understand
that I smile while I bathe
standing on the riverside sand.

It's my peaceful cleansing
before returning to my shackles
the fear of living in this territory.

I used to have my neighbors
but now I have craters
and collapsed buildings
to keep me company.

Standing in the remnants
of a door frame
is the last place I ever saw my family.

Some of us chose to drown
swimming across the Aegean sea--
some of us chose to stay
so our children
could have a place on a raft about to keel,
but none of us chose to suffer
and feel like the entire world had turned against us.

The bodies of paradise
are the fledglings of humanity--
little chicks
that peeped for love
and instead found
what we attempt to purge.

Which is reality
instead warping
and mourning
the placate scene
into what our creation
has never meant to be.

I've become fond of
literature and statutes
that line a facetious library.  

One which mangles
others from stepping inside
yet holds the truest heart.

My finest lines
are not those spoken
but those read
from paper or stone,

because
it is only
to those un-living
the crēvit are not divined
and which Veritas,
can come find
*Amor est vitae.

I am
the beauty
that which captures
even my own canvas.

An illustrious
painting to things undeserving--
wrapping up ugliness
with the truth of nature--
these shrubberies
will hide
and protect those
from the dangers
within myself.  

Convincing
the world that
We are not dying or struggling,
but merely making art--
is this not the means of artistry.

If I do not suffer
then I will never complete
my Sistine chapel
or find the real Mona Lisa
hidden amongst these frauds.  

These fears are real,
and every day
they are realized--
where my peers, friends, family
say 'I will be fine"
so I act as if I am.

No longer eating
instead I portray the art of eating--
the sun has found out
I am defenseless against it,
but I still paint myself in the light
so my lilies can survive
off the energy draining out of me.

Today was the day
I decided to clear out--
no real reason to keep
the junk that has began to rot.

Smelly like moss on a crumbly tree,
or the fashionable nonsmokers room
smelling like there's been quite a few
rebels striking back at a budget motel--
probably because they didn't have enough
television channels, to pacify these poor souls.

The inanimate fixtures are posed for display--
once complex industry
were personified to a fleeting idea of 'purpose',
instead smothers its surroundings
with the validity of indifference;
the forgotten hallows that
truly signify my closing hours.

Inside me now
are the cooing sounds
and the beating wings of fragile pigeons
that seek shelter from a world
trying to forget them;
beginning to call them pest
even though they are snow,
so they must hide within me
and survive with my blood orchids
that begin to bloom--
spilling out of me.

My mother
My father
My brother
and even my Grandmother
are all liars.

They lie
not because they know
what they are lying about
but because their world
is built on the foundation
of false truths.

Do not draw on yourself with ink
because if you do
you will become sick--
is a simple lie
that is spread just like disease.

The true black plague
of this generation
is not a virus of biological form
but an infection of the mind
one that lingers in our thoughts.

It causes us to error
corrupting what is truth
for what we think is true--
over-implosion of convoluted thoughts
make even the simplest
of ink and skin to be mixed too much.

The convenience of information
has oversimplified our lives
and with it
people produce less
and consume more.