There was a smiling man
Who would cry inside
So no one saw his sadness
Because he always said hello

He seemed a cheerful soul
Looked happy in his way
But his tears he'd hide
Behind a secret mask

He saw too much pain
Fought with people who died
Buried his best friend
From that war he heard them

They said we're always here
Walking there besides you
Even though you cry for us
Please remember us and smile

Only the worst poets
spoon feed their readers.
The rest sing it out
and let the chips
splatter as they will.
No one writes
to be misunderstood.
Spout your words
like a fountain.
Perhaps a few drops
will fall into
thirsty mouths
and satisfy.
Then again,
                  maybe not.

From whence springs his or her story?
Just what drives the wave to surge and break.
Evolution, not revolution, determines destiny:
Lungfish gasping in a mudflat. Initial syllables.
Every beginning begins at the beginning.
Only victories allowed to repeat themselves.
This is the way the way the word begins.
Endless repetition until only Now remains.
Homer, Dante, Shakespeare: one human voice:
One song sung sighing across the sky.

Try to paint imagining. What does that look like?
Maybe use a thinner brush or none at all.
Wear Birkenstocks with white socks.
Helpful? If not, look for details of masochism.
Listen for the fractal music. Hear its nots.
Those are swirls that were your eyes. Blink!
Try playing dinosaurs at a local **** store.
Chug a quivering quart of whiskey as primer.
Focus on penetrating the dance of ******.
No? Then imagine your imagination imagining.
Or, just give up and buy a copy of Cheese For Dummies.
Kick back and enjoy a gnawing evening off.

When the aliens finally arrive and systematically destroy us for being different 'twould be an irony indeed for Earthlings to chastise them for their indifference and their racism , labeling them barbarians for their principles , sort of like the '*** calling the kettle black for instance '...