I'm trying to find different ways
to bridge the gaps that cause so much hate and pain.
I’m trying to learn how to sweeten soured hearts,
defeat the shadows that have cowered
all those I know who used to want to grow
but not just go with the flow.

The world has taken all the notes I used to love
and jumbled them up, creating discord,
but I am trying to find the right cord,
write the right line in a new chorus,
to help humans explore what makes us
something more than just flesh that becomes dust.

I am trying to not die before I
have done something decent with this one life.

I am battle fatigued
from all the crap I’ve seen,
so tired that I have to retreat
from almost everything

So, imagine how fed up
all of these
protesters and families
must feel,
seeing the same ****,
watching people get killed
while they are marching,
while they are starting
a revolution that should be
super easy.

I tired and the tragedies
barely even reach me.

Those people must be
on the verge of weeping
while they are sleeping,
barely able to keep breathing
while they are grieving
cause this **** keeps
happening.

I’ve done
some
serious wrongs,
committed horrors
in these songs
as I worked out
where and why
I should belong.

I’ve made a lot of
errors looking for love,
not thinking enough,
drinking too much
to cover up
what a heart ache does.

I can’t say for certain
if I have caused
or eased
this world’s hurting.

Is the world better
for my existing in it,
or is it just
what it is?

I may never know,
and that’s ok.
I may never be
really great.
I can handle that,
cause when I die
I don’t plan on
coming back.

This point in my life
I am just enjoying
this self-generating light.
I may be uncertain
but I am certainly doing
alright.

I can only pass on a fraction
of what I see and understand.

This language is a helper,
a cleaner, sharper,
sometimes meaner
gardener
that wants to trim
my branches
and clear the whims
and fancies
that I like to play in.

But there is so much more
than what I am writing and saying,
these letters and lines
are not fully portraying
the games I am playing
in my head to get a better grasp on
what is really going on
in this human situation.

When I am well-rested,
the best is all around,
all sights and sounds,
skin sensations,
but not smells
cause I can’t tell
one scent from another.

There are worlds that transcend
the energies we spend
trying to comprehend them;
Not magical realms
or fairytale fantasy lands
just undiscovered countries
of knowledge that man
has yet to get to.

When I look at you,
I see an unknown quantity,
family history,
strange ancestry
going back to
a gross glowing goo
that went through
so much to get to
become the full wonder that you are.

I see mental calculations,
physical exertions in repetitions
and multi planar movements,
a magnitude of observations,
and opportunities that were neglected
because you let your mind and body
redirect you from truths scientific.

I see the poetry of experiences
written on your skin,
reflected in your muscles,
and the wrinkles when
you are smiling.

When I am driving
listening to audiobooks
podcasts, or music
I use all of it,
try to imagine new
and inverted ways
to say what I want to convey
passing on what makes us great
and what I hate
about the human race.

But there is just so much,
and I don’t always have
the patience to write that way.

I am useless.
A pathetic ******,
that talks a lot
of poetic *******,
but seldom ever
lives up to it.

I’ve been crawling
scrawling
weird drawings
on my dark cave mind,
keeping primitive
images
poorly defined
so, I can change
their meaning
anytime
I like.

I am tired,
too weary
for this dreary
twilight,
counting down
with the
Clockwork Sphynx
who thinks
we all stink,
so he stopped asking riddles,
and started riffing
while sniffing
sandy breezes
till he sneezes
and breathes out
more doubt.

This is pointless,
I am just dust,
not even worth enough
to get me up
when I’d rather just
lay down and sleep. cont.

What is even the point
of me?

Some people keep it simple,
claim their body is a temple,
a holy relic of the divine
and use religions to sedate their mind.

But my body is a prison,
made up of all my bad decisions,
though I keep on living
through the struggles I was given.

Shadows burn like acid,
with secrets held so tight
that I cramp inside.

Others like to smile,
party, and go wild
being free in the moment
letting nothing slow them,
till they grow old an
their temple falls down.

But my body is a library,
full of words and thoughts
that are super scary,
a universe inside a small box.
Boundaries once made
turn to jagged edges, then blur,
as all I see and learn
makes me disturbed.

I can almost always be
dangerously carefree,
oblivious to the mess
of human debris
that floats like flotsam
around me,
till I hear them scream
as they start drowning.

Then I sense
their scarlet secrets,
linked letters
that write themselves.

I can feel the weight
that presses on their chests,
as they struggle for
a restorative breath.

Their skin bleeds raw
ravaged by savage
brushstrokes,
ancient furies channeled
as my fellow humans scramble,
yet still fail to survive.

The feeling passes
almost as fast as
I can type it.
My humanity collapses,
as pain is exchanged for less
and more pleasurable pursuits,
and the anguish fades
retreating in my own
distracting ways.

My empathy shrivels up
as I go on enjoying all my stuff.

The screen reflects
an artistic perfectness
she tries to imbue
life with.

Words
whipped
from her wit
through
her swift
fingertips.

Dangerous
and lovely ideas
sparkle like
her best friend’s
very nice
glittered up nails,
and are
twice as sharp.

Each line laced
with youthful vigor,
such an energetic
expenditure,
and are flavored by
an ancient poet’s
wise old eyes.

All written
for herself
not made to share
with anyone else,

but I got a look
into the treasure chest
of her artistic mind,
and the jewels
you will find
if she is ever inclined
will blind you
with their glorious shine.

I have written repeatedly
about how nature
embraces me.

But I have never seen
verses so serene,
written with
the love of this
blooming green.

Her poetry sings
sweet soliloquies
of rapturous beauty
and poetic clarity;

Inspires new dreams
of a lunar lady,
with pure white hair,
turquoise eyes,
and cold blue lips
encrusted with
winter frost,
a woman
of the winter lake
that breaks
the night
with random ripples
of delight.

Countering
the cold queen
are the children
of the emerald green,
oz inspired
spring petals spiral
swirling in
a tornadoes wind,
flowers whipped
back and forth
but never breaking
whilst oaks crack
and crumble
under the gale forcecont.
fury.

With powerful impressions
this poet possesses
my mad mind
making me
succumb to
strange fantasies,

pushing me
to write better poetry
in hopes I might
impress her
as she has me.

What are we
but the dirt
that was once
stars we
no longer
get to see,

the water
that once
was sea
plus or minus
parts ***
passing through
everything
in human history.

What are we
but the convergence
of what ifs,
what was,
what wasn’t,
what is,
and what will
never get to be.

What are we
but strange dreams
made in
waking moments,
passing pleasantries
fading in
eternity
and infinity.

In the end
the line bends,
curving to collect
all we wish to inspect.

The way is not straight,
and waves of joy
may be too late
to save a perfect state
of peace.

Life may convict,
turn us to convicts
but if we live
than hopefully
we will have
the chance
to change things.

The grifts are plenty,
and grifters more,
but they came before
and though I abhor
their vile ways
they will probably
still be here after me.

You are a curiosity,
a very strange
flower to me,
blooming beautifully
with grand ideas
I hope to read.

Though some days
I may complain
and some pains
may strain my brain,

I hope I will
always try to be
a kinder,
wiser,
better,
version of me.

Can you listen,
pay attention
to the distance
between
the desire of things
and the need
to be freed,

when you hear it,
and can bare it,
be enveloped,
but not drowned
by the lack of sound,

tell the story
in all of its
gory glory,
feeling a fraction
of your former reaction,
but not letting
past pains
rule your brain?

Your story will
end the same
way it began,
and you can sing,

“Once upon a time,
I gave up what was
once on my mind.”

Instead of being activated
by what you hated
you got isolated,
so you wouldn't be triggered.

There were photos of
human agony on foreign streets,
bombed out buildings,
bleeding children,
and parents weeping.

Instead of getting outraged
by what you saw,
you went to your safe space,
so you wouldn't have to face
any troubling thoughts at all.

People softened the discourse,
slightly dulling the edge of the sword
they use to cut the safety cord
we call human rights.

The bad things kept happening
while you were napping comfortably.

You should have been
an exposed wire
sparking an arc of heart fires.
Instead of highlighting
that which was frightening
you went into hiding.

While those who were fighting
didn't get the option
to ignore the horror.

Busted up and ******,
tear gassed buddies bruised
while you used that excuse
of not wanting to deal with bad news
cause you might get triggered.

The world is on fire so,
melt that snowflake heart sister
and brother
we've got no time to waste
in helping each other;

Look and see these tragedies
and get motivated;
Rise up in outrage,
get ******* triggered,
and get to work son.

Cause anger gets **** done!!