What voice would reach you,
People who speak destruction,
With end time tones or in
The poetry of Bukowski?
So primitive in modern times,
Simple and complex;
Angels and demons.

You are the people,
Future devastation of our
Children with its spilling blood
And still praying to some peace
Loving god.

You are strong but empty,
Proud by unsure,
Cultured and diverse,
You oppose:
One another.

You are ****** and Jesus,
Mohamed and Napoleon,
Breaking the world and healing
The sick,
(You are your own worst enemy,
And your only friend)

You think life is ******,
That progress is martyrdom,
That the future is not on this
World;
             Yes.

You people are grand and powerful,
Whenever a belief is found
A profound shudder of ideals
Shakes the world,
And an enormous backbone
Of righteousness in the name of;
And the stars are yours,
Wether in hope or in a last dying glance
Before death,
Wealth and prosperity
Join faith and religion
To conquest one another,
Raising reason to live, to die.

You have consulted God
Which preserve your right to make
And destroy and to ****,
The footprints of blood money,
(Whose name is a star spangled
Atrocity)
Catholic,Muslim, Christian, Jewish,Hindu:
All humanity.

You are a bed of roses with
Thorns exposed.

Oh precious people,
Where has your humanity gone?

.

Drifting on a lonely stream
where lily pads and ripples direct my thoughts
to the promises of a new day

               I dream I am floating in your arms

as currents gently tug
playing solitaire in wishing hands
among glistening diamonds surfaces

               Searching for each desire’s shoreline

while my eyes wander to a place
long of sunrise sparkles
on soft summer murmurs

               Finding your fragrance on a cool wind’s whisper

my heart is drenched,
cleansed in an endless channel
of what your beauty brings to me

               A shady spot among watercolor shadows

writing poetry,
penning my affections in ink traced lines,
renderings of how wonderful my life is

               Since you have washed over me

leaving me breathless,
submerged far beneath drizzled kisses,
saturated in your love

On empty nights, I watch the flickering lights of the empty streets
At 2 in the morning, A time made for a selected few. The time where either minds or bodies wander into strange places or strangers or both.
Like a reoccuring dream, only one scene plays despite the endless succession of "ifs" and "buts" laying across my tongue like crippling bodies finding its way out, but acquiring Stockholm syndrome before it does.
How can something end 7 times over?
How can you not see the end coming?
One after the other, the questions barrage in and I can make up all the reasons and excuses, but never really answering the question in the process.
They say that perfect love casts out all fears,
But did I love you too much that I lost the fear to lose the inner parts of me, or at the very least, my intuition to know when it's not gonna get any better?
That we're not gonna get any better than this?
That we've ran out of fuel to go around in circles?
And by the 6th time we tried to jumpstart the engines, have my hands calloused thick enough to not feel the cuts from broken down wires and shattered glass sprinkled around everything you hand to me,
like how you sugar coat the way you tell me you don't love me the same anymore?
And when does the pain end?
Or does it really ever end?
Or do you just get used to it that it becomes a part of you?
According to medicine, feeling pain is a way for your body to tell you that something's not right.
The last time i saw you walking out on me, i felt a slight, gnawing pain in between my chest.
When you closed the door, the pain disappeared.
So i guess what i wanted to ask you was,
Am I still your 2am thoughts,
Or have you learned to sleep by 1?

I am 37:
Writing a poem I wonder of the words
And an echo forms into my very fabric,
I sit in my chair and the pen begins;

I am 12 years old
And mother is dying in front me breathing
Her last breaths as a bullet takes her from me,
I see the quarter moon and pray for mercy;

The quarter moon stands in a night
Filled with wonder and
I am 32 years old when I find out my
Daughters exist, all that came before
Comes together in the moment I find
Out they are mine;

And the moment is an algorithm
Of change that never really changes,
I am 15 years old and she looks deeply
Into my soul and tells me she is ready,
I enter her,
The time is phosphorescent;

In the afterglow
I am 47 and I have not yet begun
To live, but my days are ending
Because I could not control my urges
And the alcohol eats my liver as my daughters
Cry for their father;

My daughters cry for their father
Reaching out to me,
And I am 34 years old when I see
That this is something to cherish and
I immerse myself into the moment
And all things seem to stand still,
Timelessness, yet it all must pass
To become forever;

I am 37 years old,
All stands still.....
The years passing away.

I have never tried so hard to scrub
the skin off of my body
every inch he so unlovingly
touched
I have never wanted to wash away
a human being
who took my morals and my body
away from me
I have never expected
to be a statistic
I have never expected
for it to be me
I am strong right?
I'm strong and free.
Until Im locked in a room
On my knees.
He humiliated
and he changed
Me.