Guilty pleasures lick skin
pressing in confessing sins
that aren’t that bad.
In fact, in the past
those where the best
pleasure I ever had.

Now they lay
behind me
as I walk away,
every step
another day
to forget
the laughing corpses
that paint my path
of painful yesterdays.

The ****** bones
of this broken lunatic
howling back at
other fanatics,
as the circus of
the ****** I love
just clowns around town
for a little bit.

Memories burn before me,
dancing clouds of smoke
as ashes aspire to fly higher,
leaving behind burnt offerings
of all those silly passing things.

Pleasure is partly pursued
by all the body parts
I never used, just viewed
and stored for some
later date.

With a flick of my fast wrist
I purge myself of all of this
frustration, leaking my lust
in tiny but thick droplets
and fall asleep cont.
on my sticky sheets.

They’re not my enemy
but when I look and see
a crowd of red hats screaming,
ignorance blooming and seaming
to overcome any sort of reasoning,

I wonder who are they
and how did they come to be
people who suffer bigots so easily?
How do they let the greasy
****** con-men con them
into hating other women
men and children?
How have they not learned
their history lessons?
How do fools gather
more like minds to them,
then abuse the innocent
whilst using and confusing
the voting populace?

In the past I thought I had this
perfect proposition to position
myself as an artist and arbiter
of the truths kind hearts hold dear,
but it has become crystal clear;

In observing I find uncertainty
turns towards dark side
Jedi knight philosophy
but a little expanded when
uncertainty leads to anxiety,
and anxiety leads to fear,
which then translates into hate,
when one man comes to justify
corruption, and cruelty in the guise
of business suit wearing guys
even when it’s just with lies
they elevate and celebrate
the pigs who make them feel great.

Look at your mind running
a million miles a second,
thoughts provoking obsessions
as you keep on stressing,
stewing, and second guessing
cause life has too many
variables to measure.

Half a mind on the future
while the other half
is stuck in the past,
so the present is tense
when your measurements
cannot fathom all the trends.
Maybe, you could use
a holiday with all your friends.

You’re edging towards
a serious coronary,
cause this level of intensity
is nowhere near ordinary,
so sit back jack and relax.

I’m not judging you harshly
or trying to be controlling.
I just wanted to pass on the truth.
It’s not much but I feel since I can
understand then I probably owe you
and this information is passed on
with a strong sense of compassion.

There are too many distractions,
too many actions to prevent
seeing other men, woman,
and children as humans.

It’s too easy to go a whole day
avoiding seeing people in pain.
It’s too easy to let politicians
and powerful corporate interest
rewire your tired and poorly fed brain,
to let weak rhetoric whip up and inflame,
making normal people act insane.

All the while letting strangers
suffer and die without questioning why.
  
But so much has been bothering me,
like how is it so easy for you to behave cruelly?
I want you to not be numb,
to see humanity in everyone.
Do not let the digital distance
keep you from the severity
of this instance,
or get doped up with
the self-satisfaction
of shared positions
created by weak religions
or the illusion of a binary system
that relies on one source of corruption
feeding both parties of politicians.

I need you to be freed from greed,
to look and really see other human beings,
to read the stories written in the skin
of generations after generations
of nations and nations
of human kin.

To see each bullet punctured body
as a failure,
each bombed burnt body
as a failure
each person murdered by the authorities
as a failure,
each time we chose profits
over the wellbeing of the world
as a failure.

I want you to see the dying
of those many miles apart
who are trying to survive
and not look away.

I want you to know
that if we are truly
kind and moral people
who want to be treated fairly
then we can’t treat death as casually,
as social media and daytime trash tv.

I close the curtains,
let darkness consume
my small bedroom
till blue light blooms
from the small screen
that sits between me
and everything.

In my resistance
I live a safe distance
from a regular
human existence.

Digits tapping out
syllabic strokes of
love and doubt,
whilst constantly
struggling
and pursuing
truths others
weren’t using
or even viewing
to expand myself.

A universe within,
the garden I tend
as I parcel out
tiny packages
of unused wisdom.

Light becomes
darkness
and night
turns to day.

A day to live
and die again
awaking refresh
as a new version
of myself
gets up and repeats
similar patterns.

It's technical proficiency,
consistency, transparency,
and coherency
that he needs
to transplant the seeds,
transposing the pearls of wisdom
he is exposing
as plants that need
feeding and watering
for their growing,
whilst showing
what this knowing
fool is good for.

Grade school memories
of hidden recesses,
the depths
that he still possesses,
parts of his inner being,
poetry playing out in partly
remembered past dreams
that he pastes as prose
to placate the thorn that grows
despite that cancerous rose
attached.

Treacherous as
the lecherous man that’s
drawn to the hottest bodies
just to be scorched by their
blazing beauty,
able before disintegration
to translate his fascination
into something glorious.

Verbs become his identity,
acting out absurd words that
breach the vain veil
we used to hide
our truer selves.

I'm apprehensive
cause when
people mention
their own fears
it causes me tension.

But, I'm so glad
I brought my
small black
notepad,
so I can write notes
to pass the time,

cause I got 8 hours
of contemplating
devastating
and frustrating
lessons in waiting,
learning patience,
while debating
if now is the time
for innovating,
or for immolating
all of my
addicting devices,
and going back to
a more naturalistic
worldview.

This is what
I work out,
and it works to
ease me through
boring afternoons.

I’ve been trying to measure it,
find the source,
feel its substantial force,
and faithfully transcribe it.

Like it’s a universal code
that some genius should know,
crack that riddle to the divine
to find out how much
writing and time
it would take to make
people relate to one another.

It’s abstract and lacks
any substance,
so facts cannot precisely
quantify or package it nicely.
Still, I keep on trying.

It can be heavy
but has no weight,
cold with no temp
to register.

If you ask a stranger
she might not be
able to explain
it adequately
or even want to,
but I want you to
want to understand
like I am trying to.

So, I continue using
metaphorical musings,
and manically reading
studying, seeing,
and thinking
whilst hoping
that the ingredients
of empathy
are like seeds
that I can start planting
and then begin reaping
what this world has been needing,
since before I was ever born.

I'm a wannabe poet who's fit,
muscular and brilliant,
but drowning in ****
cuz I wasn't born to be aquatic,
caught this caustic illusion,
that perpetuated the delusion
that we live in a system
that is actually democratic,
and that I might matter just a little bit,

but I can no longer hold my breath,
sinking sullenly in a swollen sea
of one mind numbing atrocity
after another.

It's easier to deal with an enemy
when he's dead,
because you can change what he said,
reworking it retroactively
to make it so you both agree
like Richard Daley did with Martin Luther King
Jr.

But if you don’t want to wait for death then
you can co-op or cop people's thoughts
so you can sell them some slick ****,
that prepackaged can of emotional spam
that lets self-serving men rewrite history
to suit their capitalistic autocratic
caste system that casts victims
of the almost mindless majority.

In understanding
that fate does not
arrange it,
and that I cannot
rearrange it.

I am finding myself
to be a redundancy
that no one needs
and the point me
existing is a ponderous
bit of reflecting
that has not revealed
the reasons why
I act or feel.

So, I'm settling in
watching human suffering
but no longer struggling
to change it.

I am empty,
negative spaces
that do not reflect
or absorb
any light
or other
things of
great import.

Earth conforms
to fit the form
of my warm
footprints.
Plants bend
when I touch them,
but no one sees
my being
or hears a
single thing
from me.

I am the master
of nothing,
apathy embodied,
too tired to be
hopeful,
or naughty.

Warm winds work
their way
around my body.
Water falls all
around me,
but what
can a void feel
when it is not
even real?

Don't laugh.
I seek the
most apt path
to come back
from my black past.

Sitting in the weeds,
I see fools speaking,
mouths reeking,
like bowls leaking
hateful sewage,
dropping drips of
stinking rage
as they put
their anger
on display.

I'm reading up
studying stuff,
but it doesn't
matter much,
never adds up
to enough wisdom
to change,
and exchange
all this world's pain
for love and compassion.