Let lightning course
through your pulse
and let your heart
beat loud with thunder

become the storm of your life
and the wind of your breath
let nothing move you
that does not move you

cry when you must
and love whenever you can
embrace every emotion
no matter how painful
  or blissful
    or mistakenly sinful

feel everything this life
has to offer you
both the good and the bad

learn from your mistakes
and bad relationships
and love each new day
and new lover more fiercely
from what your past
has taught you

become more open
each time you are broken
grow and rise up after every fall

never tame the wild beast
that lives in the marrow
of your bones
you can let you heart get stolen
     but never
   let your heart be caged

let your love be a gift
that expects nothing in return
for any other expectation
is not the truth of love
the reward for kindness
is the act of being kind

you will often find yourself
lost at sea
and when you do remember

let lightning course
through your pulse
and let your heart
beat loud with thunder
and be the storm
that carries you home

A blood red sunset drips over
the black asphalt city skyline
somewhere in a lost part of America

where the dream has
long been dead and buried
and hate and fear rule
the rural streets that are protected
by peace keepers
that practice ******
more often than upholding the law

It has been declared open season
on any crow the color
of a starless night sky
and the dove has become
a symbol of
to protect and serve
their own kind
birds of a feather
that cover for one another

justice is blinded
by the snow covered truth
and the color of corruption
is coincidentally the same
as the color of money

the poor have little choice
but to trade their bones
and their hopes
to the corporations
of the new land
of the free
to be owned by
and controlled by
a minimum wage
that only guarantees
to keep the poor
poor enough
  to work another day
    and another day
      and another day

until there bones are
nothing but powder
and their beds
are nothing but coffins
for the barely living

and life somewhere
in a lost part of America
at the end of everyday
the sky turns red
and the color of blood
runs through the streets
as the doves go along
with their business
of the murdering of crows

A crow never stole corn
   that the earth didn’t give freely
The man too often takes
  too much credit for what
    he puts down into the dirt
Wether it is a seed or a body
As if he alone made
  life sprout and grow
As if without him
   the earth would not be green
    the sky would not be blue
As if he himself is
  the very GOD he prays to
The man forgets his place
  when murdering the crow
   for nothing more
     than being a crow
Mistaking black beaks
  and black feathers
    and black eyes
  as things that must
    always be up to no good
A bird that is no good
  for anything but a target
    for his hate and fear
As if the crows heart
   was meant for nothing other
     than to give his bullets
        something to bite into
The man becomes something
   less and less
 every time he murders
    another crow

There is a moon
over Tennessee
and it is killing me
with its soft
moon light red lips
and don't you wish
you were here hips
her dark eyes telling stories
from the west side
of the tracks

if it isn't magic
that she makes
from her fingertips
out of the nothing
in the night air
then it must be love
she sculpts out
of these small moments
of eternity

the moments she shapes
into stars that shine
with flames of poetry
close enough to read
but just out of reach
never to be held
never to be touched

there in the sky
they hang
and they sing
with that moon

that moon over Tennessee
that moon
that is killing me

Depression doesn’t loosen its grip when I am caught off guard by a joke / and it is funny enough to make me snort and that only makes me laugh at the embarrassment I feel from snorting / it’s still there coiling quietly while reloading its fangs with venom / ready to strike whenever I start to feel something good is happening / that maybe this whole life and art and love thing is worth taking out my paper and pencils and pens and brushes  and paints for / and maybe just maybe give some hope to dreaming like I did back in my youth / back when I thought more about my potential / I thought more about my abilities / I thought I could do anything / I thought I would do anything / I thought love... / I thought love was within reach.../ somewhere with someone... / I wouldn’t say I really suffer from any serious forms of depression /  more of just “situational” depression /like I hate my job “depression” / I hate my ability to procrastinate so well “depression” / I hate the way I carry so much self loathing “depression” / the I hate my “life” depression... / you know / situational “depression” / and the situation only being the situation of being alive “depression” / but it comes and goes / slithering quietly through / from my mind through my heart / back and forth / waiting silently for anything I might feel or think that it might want to strike out at and strangle and swallow head first / its nice like that / to not always be present in every thought of every day / but never to far away / never gone for good / I mean theres a lot in this world and this life to be depressed about / how horrible would it be to not be able to feel depressed...oh man, I almost snorted...

Loneliness does not leave my body when I walk into a crowded room /it only amplifies itself with thoughts of why didn’t I just stay at home /what did I expect to find here / a pretty face with a kind smile and deep soulful eyes that would not only see the troubled and lost thoughts inside my head / but would be a mirrored reflection of the same struggles and doubts / someone who would say more by saying nothing and understand all the silence pouring out of my mouth / you know the girl / the one I read about in the poem I wrote last week / last year / yesterday and probably again tomorrow / the imaginary one I write all those fictional love poems to / the one that kind of looks like me in a dress / is it weird that I think she’s kind of hot? / the one that reminds me of the real girls and women I am always too afraid to talk to / I swear if it weren’t for alcohol and aggressive women I would still be a ****** today / it was so cute how they told me they never brought guys home with them... I don’t know maybe this was true / maybe it wasn’t / and I was always so naive that every time it happened I expected we were going to just watch a movie or something... / we did the something / just a something not as PG as I was expecting / something not really PG at all.../ oh...young me, where has tho gone.../ (sigh)... / I don’t drink so much now and I am not as naive / still a little / but that’s another story.... / and now I have been alone so long that it has a certain comfort and warmth / so long that I rarely notice being lonely at all / the dull buzz of silence / the peacefulness of an empty house is louder than the empty echo and cries of desperation from my heart... / that is / until I walk into a crowded room