That makes so much sense, it makes dollars.

Everything is perfect

each word so powerful

hence / Silence

Scared creatures fleeing

natural habitats

The way you run this

world sir, please, have it

back.

Take with you all your

trash, death, and disease ridden

corpses /

All the lies, despising, hypocritical

action

Don’t forget your wallet, pride,

and why

Well in fact while you are at

as Mother stops her cry, have a

heart attack and die

<3

You

Poetry is often made impossible
and forgotten it dribbles away

Experiences begot are dried
in dusty memoriam of thoughts

Locked in chipped ornaments
pictured emotions die framed
in an old letter's sentenced pain

Decorative wordy entrapments
cannot fool or command love
however many silvered words
try to stir or grab at thine heart

Whereas times every moment in
your observed, captured thought
does cradle this beating heart

"We shall gift thought it's
touch and bites of freedom
then love it's sustenance"

Fun's giggling thrashing bushes
of living sweating poetry

David x

Creativity I fear,
Being unaware of the past and present possessions.
I lost control of it,
I utter the words that my finger tips once molded.
I am that I am without even expressing it.
Controlling myself within.
Unbelievably spoken out,
As harsh white clouds,
Looking abruptly at the trees that sway gently in the wind.
Creativity where have you been,
Cracked, shattered, my iris withers.
Now to men I’m colour blind.
I’m finding my way.
No colour in the eyes,
Creativity shall continue to hide.

©

I want the twiddle you hear
in lil guitar songs.
The ones that twist your heartstrings
and make you sigh with relief,
with pain and shame and passion.
They hit you like the music notes that
promise big dreams and whisper sweet nothings:
a ton of bricks with good intentions.

Get the heartache out of the way first:
do the hard stuff first
and take the joyful meanderings, eventually.

Take this beating, breathing, seething, seemingly
lively thing and EXCHANGE it
make it feel and not think
let me follow and follow and not lead me
astray. Show me, don't tell me.

I am your poetry 100 class, and you
need to constructively criticize my
existence in to sense.

Maybe we’ve moved past
The jazz dancing nights
Baby brownie bites into freedom
Now
A pathology of pathologically pathetic patterns
Day in, day out
Wax on, wax off
One of these days:
I’ll learn the piano
Beethoven, bach, ben folds
One of these days
Handstands, happiness, hope
Will string through the summer loving
Hooligans
One of these days
We robo-people will wind down,
Slow,
Stop,
Need oil for our rusted bits
Head, shoulders, knees, and even toes
But, mr. tin man, what if Dorothy
Never comes along?
We won’t blink for centuries
And maybe the world will finally come alive