Sorrow spilt silk streams,
thin lines of pain falling.
They are like old fuzzy dreams,
tiny inklings, hints to a puzzle
that I’m not trying to solve.

A spark of a memory
which I no longer recall,
a place in my brain
I don’t visit at all,
but once in a while
a shadow creeps
from the closets that keep
little pieces, jagged edges,
sharp parts of my heart
that have been shattering
for as long as I have been
living in this cruel world.

Tears come but I disregard,
hit reset so I can restart.
After all I’ve come so far,
too many miles to be hindered
by the chains of a ghost
I don’t want to remember.

Like a frozen dead bird
that refuses to rot,
just sits under permafrost,
I hope I never thaw
because spring will bring
all the sorrows of lonely.

How diligently do you
deepen discourses
on philosophical,
social, and political
truths?

What is debatable,
palatable,
until it is unsayable,
cuz the unstable
will make horrible things
capable of happening.

A carnival of
constant rotations
declines and elevations,
disturbing mental visitations
paired with terrible hesitation.

The fetishization,
and circulation
of cultural appropriation,
hastened by caucasians
lack of emotional relations
to different groups
and their enforced stations
in our society.

How do we address
the inequality
when so many resist
the notion that it even exists?

So, the systems persists,
as I bang my head
against collectively created
mental bricks.

This poem is a study of sturdy storytelling.
Conflicts don't have to be complicated.
We don't need any super or normal villains.

I may not have the ability to be commercially
as successful as those other persons I see
who are spitting sick **** provocatively.

I may not be technically terrific.
Each line may not be perfectly specific,
but I can take new experiences and refashion them,
take enemies passion’s and make them friends again.

Till we all give in to the compassionate whims
that do what we need artistry to achieve,
cause we need other artists to believe
we can be better than what we currently see.

You go on living,
keep on working
while I am giving
all the poetry I have,
all the jokes to
make everyone laugh.

But, I suspect
that we won’t connect.

I don’t want to ask,
but why don’t you
love me like I
love you.
Please come here,
please go away.
I feel so isolated.
Please leave me be.
I am happy with
my own misery.

So, I know
where I follow
you will never go.

I want to reveal myself,
share strange stories and relate
to those who suffer the same,
even though I am doing great.

You’re inspiring and beautiful.
I am inquiring about your youthful
passions,
passing certain questions
asking about shared obsessions.
You go out into the world
and really live in it,
while I want to see life
and write brilliantly about it.

Maybe, someday you will read,
feel and see all the things
that I tried to share.
I won’t be there
and I suspect
that even if
we do connect
it will be
far too late for me
to see.

How inappropriate,
she’s my ******,
cute and flexible
barely detectable,
definitely delectable.

She’s a wonderful,
super comfortable,
good dancer,
a little dangerous,
perfectly fit,
and slightly psychotic.

I’m a caterpillar
and she is
a caterpillar killer.

She is fascinating,
and good at debating.

What a dream
a tragedy
that she is
imaginary,
make believe
at least for me.

In reality she
is dating
the kind of guy
I have spent
my lifetime hating,
confident bad boy
without the brains to
back up that smack talk.

Chalk it up to
a society that
doesn’t value
the truth
but prefers
*******.

I am already one among many,
a stranded stranger in this city,
but despite my plight they still
try to steal my identity,
try to change my name,
leaving me out to dry as I
am barely hanging from the windowsill.

There is no place for a poet who
rebels against those that want to
make him into another reflection
of this destructive urban infection.

I would run with the wolves
but the only wildlife we got here
are the wall street predators
and the other beasts who drink
up the destruction and misery
of the lost souls creeping on
cold hard and hungry city streets.

The roads are slick, and I could easily
find myself slipping, and falling,
succumbing to the dark and beastly
urges that want to consume me,
as my empathy is drained and changed
into a deranged competitive side.

It would be better to become
the moon that loves the sun,
or the ever-changing stream
that runs through my dreams.

The forest calls with all of her
grand green beauty and wonder.
The stillness and quietest
place that supplies this
momentary escape and inspiration.

White petals floating in the wind,
dirt brown paths that go down
to the lake and then
back around to a field of corn.

but I seldom return to that safe place,
just muddle through a sick polluted storm,
brain dead instead of wearing a smiling face,
I start to blend into the crowd that is moving.

Tightly packed automatons,
memory fails and now the poet is gone.

The city devours the last brilliant hours,
and the poems no longer finds a pen,
and the phoenix no longer rises again.
The sleeper no longer dreams.
He just keeps walking and walking.

A stranded stranger still talking,
but not saying anything.

I'm shining like Stephen King,
while you’re a firestarter,
a fast furnace exploding,
growing, and blowing
up in a biggest bang
that I have ever seen.

Tell me something about it,
cause I’ve got a brief case of misery
sprinkled with just a bit of psychotic,
as violent as Carrie’s and Cujo’s rabid rage.

No regulators here in the dead zone,
just a long walk trying to get home
with more stuff that's been bothering me,

wondering if it’s time for me to take a stand,
to get my brothers and sisters to understand
there won't be any rest in the pet cemetery,
and there's no place to sleep in Salem's lot
unless you’re dying here beside me,
while I’m losing my blaze,
ending my graveyard shift workday.

I'm an outsider, tired bag of bones,
but I keep doing my roadwork,
watching that dark tower rise as I drive.
Maybe someday death will catch me if it can,
but for now, I’m a pretty fast running man.

See the highway that they painted like the grassland
on that road I roll full of desperation for elevation,
one more green mile left, but I’m getting thinner.
Mr. Mercedes will be too late to make it to dinner.

I am alone my mental cell,
the institute where Doctor Sleep
will not come. Perhaps, you'll stand by me
enjoying all the four seasons that we see
with my dark half drawing three
talismans like the Colorado Kid,
my dear Duma and strange Christine.

Though, it’s insomnia that keeps me from sleep,
with the hopeful heart of Atlantis,
I pray they finally grant me peace,
and little quiet space to read
some more works from Stephen King.

She's a protester
not a warrior
but something
so much better,
a singer song writer
a warm and brighter
lamp that keeps us
from succumbing
to the mind numbing
dullness with which
greedy men try to use
to **** our muse,
and give us the blues.

I got eye strain and back pain
from sitting in the chair all day,
working my life away,
clicking on keyboards and mouses,
while staring at computer screens,
and ignoring other things;

I am detached from the fact that
there is more than just me,
because everyone I see,
every single human being
has turned into pixelated images
on the monitor I’ve monitored
all day.