Look at my hands.
They create and shape
Reality on my demands.
These scarred phalangies
contour concepts like destiny
deftly. Meticulously configuring
My Rubix's cube territory
Until the world before me
Is a model of what I wish to see.

I am a god

I will twist this existence
until I find it suitable
for my presence.
Only then my appearance
will be seen as a blessing.
Maybe then I won't have
to be loved from a distance

Hold on.
I have to clean this up.
I don't want your soles to get cut up by my lack of ambidexterity.
I'm right-handed but I thought I'd try this out with my left
And I'm not as deft with it, especially in the moment, but I thought I'd give it a shot anyway.

It's my fault... I don't know how to juggle.

I'm usually good with rotation but
between the dilation of my eyes and the inflation of my ego,
the sensation of being flippant left me in a painted tuxedo

And it's raining...It's been raining.

I'm not complaining but the paint
is running and bleeding; An apotheosis of Leonid Afremov
needing emotional content to prove I exist.

*I don't mean to be like this. I don't want to be like this.

What does it say about humankind that it defines happiness in a rectangular paper with a number and this symbol on it: $ ?
And there is no escape for those who don't define as such. If your definition is anything but $, €, £, ¥, and so on, you, apparently, are not allowed to eat, drink, have a shelter
reproduce
wear clothes
Have a voice...

Everyone sat
criss-cross-applesauce
in our hearts.
Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

I try hard to sound
important,
when I write *******
because
there are bodies
reading this *******.

And bodies grow and wither.
They thrive and survive.
They get married
and die alone.
They die.

To become dead.

Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

Time to concoct something the doctors can't counter
Callous my temper with imitation, an elation that makes an earthquake feel a bit sounder
If I told you I was a chameleon you would think I'm a laughing sensation
Like a small town crowd of people with personalities no deeper than flounder
But if you hit me I temper like brass in a manner of class saturation, trying to become a metal that cannot be bent or shaken by voices that are louder

Your mirror's can't see me, only you
I copy and pasted your binary in my caffeine induced computer architect blues
If I told you the color of envy was green, would you see right through my chameleon mirage tailored J. Crew

My scales aren't slimy, although you'd figure so by the way I march around in the conviction of my intelligent muse
I'm so perfect in being perfect, it's almost a clue

But paint me another color of your choosing, to mask the mask I'm wearing over my bruising
You wouldn't know what I scream behind all that I'm hiding because it's sealed under all of the mumbles of my crying

I'm calling your faintest noticeable attraction to grow to know my horrendous transaction interactions
When you sit in your desk chair with your tobacco relaxion, judging every crescendo of my orchestra tastes and core reactions

What say you demon for your jailing taxes, and your horns and your perfect brand named wood stained glasses?
Your cuff is off, your deliverance remarkable, you're becoming a ******* classic just by the stale look that your grin passes
Im not ready for aerobics, I'm not elastic, most will tell you if you try bending me into fantastic, I'm not very static
That's why imitation is suicide when you're not dynamic, looking down the barrel of a factory stack of envy plastics

I'm guilty of admiring my works and not others, that's what's silly about my self compassion dance
When the only thing I've got left is the narcissistic klaxon that my self-righteous ambulance horn trances

If it's killing me, Bukowski would be proud, because he loved his liquor, but he loved killing himself more
He'd say, "**** your religion! Pour this! This will bring you closer to God!"
It's hard for an atheist to swallow, and to dabble in the tasting of sin,
But Jesus was famous for turning water into wine, with no grapes mashed or thinned

The shield of amaretto is strong and smooth
You can put your cruise control on if you feel amused and soothed
But in darker times it will make your feeling woozy and moved
But **** does it make you feel more like yourself
The you'est you can be, with impeccable speech craft and gentlemanly muse
Helps you pay the dues that you have abused in your passive seasonal attitudes

So what say ye Devine for thou'est darkest temptations, when you've created your own demons, hells, and abrasions
Seems like you're the one holding the power ***** of creation
Ye 'ol Devine *******

What do you feel when you jot down that stark syntax
Do you feel full in your stomach of pretentious factions
Building your philosophy with Lincoln logs and political tactics
What a young poet feels when he's unsure of what his feelings mean and what to write in between those brackets
Laying to rest past selves in a row of six feet deep holes lined with caskets

Sometimes the words we write have more meaning than we put to them
Funny how a letter or a word can make a difference in self
Life can be like reading a book and putting it back on the shelf
Or the shelf gnome right next to it that stares back but doesn't
You give false meaning when you don't know how to feel
That's why the best poems are rewritten and not written
That why I'm on top of this world,

and im flying, not sitting

Oh to be trending with
Praise never ending
For poems I’ve shared on this site.

Likes and reposts give me
Reason to boast -
Justify staying up through the night.

Notifications are
Cause for elation;
The judges DO like what I write!

But a poem too plain
Causes heartache and pain, and
Is often my poor poet’s plight.

No comments, no hearts,
Silence tears me apart
As the view numbers start to get high.

Doesn’t anyone care?
Is it cause for despair?
Don’t they know how hard that I try?

And who really can blame us?
Our desire to be famous
Is a standard set forth at our birth.

Though it’s narcissistic,
We allow some statistics
To define the extent of our worth.

When I group words together
My soul is the tether;
I am sharing a part of myself.

The peril I fear
Is that no one will hear
As the words gather dust on a shelf.

So when the words are ‘bout right
I choose to quit for the night,
Add some tags, then I hit save and send,

‘Cuz when all’s said and done
We’re just writing for fun,  
Who cares if the **** thing will trend!
PwL   March, 2015