Making No Sense

Young people cry,
old people die,
I just wonder why.
Babies are born,
men watch ****,
women are torn.
Some swallow,
soul is hollow,
I just wallow.
Read between lines,
always pay fines,
do it in the pines.
Think outside the box,
not all keys fit locks,
I'm more sly than a fox.
Breaking the chains,
everyone complains,
all that remains.
Met at the station,
in for the duration,
part of the creation.
Mind over matter,
thin over fatter,
brains always splatter.
Orlando and Dawn,
Hudson and Hawn,
is anybody really gone.
Food on table,
mentally unstable,
ready, willing and able.
Praying to God,
while laying sod,
two peas in a pod.
Football is gay,
Peyton better play,
Broncos all the way.
Nothing seems level,
born a rebel,
running with the devil.

You say doctors will
make the best poets.
They will search your emotions
by the skin; cutting open to reveal
and revel
with surgical precison.
They will play with
heavy drugs and blades--
nothing shall hide beneath
the armors of bone and muscle.
They know the anatomy
of the heart too well.
They will find the things
you have hidden in your chest.

I say
doctors will never be poets.
They are too mechanical,
too fast with their edges
and ridges.
They cannot see the pain
as pain but merely as an anomaly.
That sadness is black bile
not melancholia.
They cannot sing to you
but only clammer in medical jargon.

Poets will use their imperfect words,
and perfect rhymes
to find the secrets of your rib cage
with ease.
They will find every flaw
of your broken body
and make it the best story
you've never heard.

Doctors,
they will put love to define as
a momentary rush of adrenaline,
an arrythmia for another human
caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm.

Poets will tell you
that love is the first jolt
of life for them.
They will say love is a state of euphoria
that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies.

Doctors say that
veins carry blood
devout of oxygen.
I say that they carry your broken emotions
to their feelings factory
to mend it within its beautiful catacombs.

All those doctors
will find and fix you
with perfect solutions.

And these poets
will do their best
to be your perfect solution.

Things are getting harder
And I cannot carry on
Burdened with these butterflies
That just won't die.
I am a specimen in a jar
Observed by a curious self.
I flutter to the top, to an airhole,
One delicious gasp,
And then I fall back, waiting
For the strength to rise again.
Forgive me,
I am new to myself and only want release
Perhaps I need to be restrained,
To ever find some peace.

She's coming to terms
With the face in the window
One beer at a time