I have a dream, no not that of Martin Luther king,
but that which is beautifully flawed, making you perfect.

I am no writer so bear with me as I try to put into words
That which my heart cries out. I pray that I will one day find you
And not because I was searching but because it is written.
I pray that our friendship will not be a toxic one
Where one gives and the other takes it all.

Oh dear future friend,
I pray that you won’t spend so much time self-
Proclaiming your worth that you forget mine,
When in matter of fact we are all worth life to the one
Whose opinion only matters.

I pray that you will love me enough to not have to
Play the victim always, nor I for that matter.
I pray you won’t have to raise your voice,
Just so your opinion matters for no one knows it all.
I pray you won’t abuse my nature so much that even
The lashes I’ve taken have no hold on your words.
I pray I won’t go to bed hurt because you failed to care

Oh dear future friend,
I pray you will show me my wrongdoings without condemning me,
Or proving again how much more righteous you are than I am.
I pray you won’t count the grains of rice I lend from you
To one day reclaim them all.

Oh dear future friend, I have a dream.
A dream where I will wake up everyday wanting
to try and be a better friend to you
Than I was the day before.
I pray that you will not only remember that you have a friend in me
Only when storms surround you, but that you will remember me too
While you dance in the summer rains lit with rainbows.
Dear future friend, I pray that we will write our own meaning
Of friendship, one that has no laws or subtle terms
And conditions applied.

But mostly oh dear friend
I pray that we will become friends
Not ‘because of’ but because
Just because

Dear future friend
I think I’m already in love with the thought of meeting you……..

Oh ‪rose‬,
gentle ‪flower‬ spirit-
in these moments
i imbibe our singularity,
for I feel your delicate petals
blossoming from my ‪third-eye‬,
roots wrapped betwixt my ‪‎heart‬-
your scent whispering ‪Rumi‬
as I ‪dance‬ with you
in this delirious ‎springtime‬ tango
I cry out
"oh magnificent beings,
rejoice!
For I have found ‪us‬!
We're all together
in this moment!"
But the rose simply giggles coyly,
her dance continues
as if this was a secret she knew
all along.

Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.

No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.

Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.

The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....

whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.

There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.

I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...




good luck.....






have fun.

Throughout my life,
I have felt crummy,
even as a child,
and for all these years,
I have been looking for
a cure for feeling crummy,
so I found one,
tonight,
since I was in
the basement,
feeling crummy,
it occurred to me
that feeling crummy
is the same feeling
as being ******
on many kinds
of recreational drugs,
and the only difference is
that we like to be ******,
but we don't like
to feel crummy,
so all I had to do
was to think
that I was ******,
instead of crummy,
and it worked!
so I became
instantly happier
and felt much better,
so that's my cure
for feeling lousy,
just think
that you are ******.

She drowns me in her blood
now and then,
boiling, burning and choking sticky crimson
stripping me to sizzling pieces of flesh,
as if each drop a piranha.

Every time this happens I'm nauseated
at myself.
My life flashes before my eyes,
her words of frustration in my absence provide the narration
while my mind writes the score
composed using chewing chattering shattering bones
with flashbacks of every time no matter how big or small
I've wronged her,
like once when I grabbed her hair as she was kissing me.  
The only thing stopping me from hanging myself
with a barbed-wire noose
is the grit of my beating heart's rhythm
tapping out in morse code
that I will be reborn
into a minescule of a better person
for a certain amount of time
until this cycle happens all over again.

Truly, there is honor, to die
in this manner.  
But the agony leaves me almost permanently moonstruck.
As my skin skalds and bones dissolve,
there's no telling if, or when I will be reborn
or languish in this this precipice of death.

The morning opens her arms to me, perfumed with dew drops on grass blades. Hanging loosely over her body an iris cloud dress gleams incandescent watermelon pinks and tangerine. Her solar eyes twinkle, the alabaster one winks as if to say,

I know of your deja vu dream from earlier.

We dance sun salutations.

That's when it dawns on me that I'm on a date with the morning.