I am twisted.
I am scattered and sketched.
I’m a trip
I don’t need a drink or a sip.
I am the color of the energy.
The strong that gives vaccines
To the ones who reach out to prayers and lost dreams.
I am a survivor of bruises cuts and an old punching bag in between fights.
I’m a mess a mess by the guess.
A rebel formed from a hell hold called home.
Stand tall out of this
On my level out of this dome,
You’d get confused and thrown off cause I roam far
All Alone.
I am open
And I care
Wide awake is why I share.
I bring wisdom, facts, and not opinions
It’s been me since the beginning.
I believe in no false image
But what I’ve seen kindness is a treasure.
And I’ve forgotten the mean.
Your past does not define you.
Because it is left behind you.
I leave you mind blown
Stuttering.
But you’ll be completed on my app.
It’s Christmas time on dads lap.
It’s a button
Easy start.
Just gotta try to heal that heart
Jesse applegate

I wish to go to Nova Scotia
And long to play in Breton fields,
Faraway and over the oceans,
For ever a bonnie soul shall lead.

I wish to row for Nova Scotia
And glide above the seas trembling,
Far beyond my earthly devotions,
Where ever a bonnie soul shall lead.

    I see long oars in every tree,
    In ocean swells, a boat for me,
    A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
    Beyond the wave is music and song.

I will follow a star to Nova Scotia
And suffer on seas of forgetfulness,
To play a fiddle with joyful Scotians,
For ever a bonnie soul has needs.

    I see long oars in every tree,
    In ocean swells, a boat for me,
    A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
    Beyond the wave is music and song.

A spiderweb cracks the sky
in oranges and reds
as I inhale deeply
the mountain mist,
I insist this place is Heaven.
Twenty minutes ago
the singing began
in earnest,
echoing off the white oaks,
those twisted hickories.
And in a frenzy,
Goldfinches
crack sunflower seeds
by the pound.
Oh the wonderful sound!
I love this place,
nestled near
the West Fork
of Wolf Creek.

so naive
dreamt in narrow corridors of better things
so naive
the war is not outdoors
it’s your mind
where heaven starts and hell begins
unravel guises you swear you knew
foe not friend

and at the bottom
of a hell that i had made
comprised of external situations
and the promises of better days
the bridges built soon fell away
the ashes swim in puddles deep of expectations
so naive
and what was left there
well that was me
so naive

I asked her why she cut herself,
and she said,
"Because death has an edge
and life is pointless."
She asked that I not
write a poem
romanticizing suicide,
just a poem about
how hard it can be
to celebrate life.

Random dates.
Random times.
Useless words.
Stupid rhymes.

It's not cool being
less than you can be
so I urge you--
urge you--
to be happy.

Because there was a man
who was a clown
and he danced for the children
as they were being lead
to the gas chamber.
And it was 1943.
And it was
**** Controlled Germany.

The clown wept,
each time the lever
was pulled
and when the children
became silent.

To stop crying,
he told himself
that existence
is just random dates
and random times.
There was no meaning
in reason
and no order
in lines.

All he could do
was all he did know,
and that was to give
happiness
before they'd go.