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.

We cannot get back
to the past
that we once knew
cuz that would undo
all the progress
we've made.

Life's not like
a video game.
We don't get to redo,
no replaying
going through
old levels
that we want to.

So, if it's just one shot
one life that we're given,
one moment to live in
this game we're playing.
Then it's not about winning.
It's not about losing.
It's not about gaining another day.

I won't see you after I die
but you can always stop by
and read what I write.

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'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.

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'm not in denial,
just trying to reconcile
the fact that I enjoy your style,
but if you’re hearing this,
then you must be delirious
if you expect to be taken serious
when you're spitting
misogynistic *******.
It makes you hypocritic
when you try to turn around
and consciously spin it
in a social justice way.

I'm not flossing,
but I cost men
a certain respect,
got those searching rejects
looking for objects
that might inject
a direct flow
into a system that's
too slow,
so they watch their engines
go too cold.

I'm not a bomb
but I blast holes
in those
violent episodes,
take the illogical
and repurpose it,
making poetry
with logic in it.

I'm not a gun
and I never want to
carry one,
but you'll get shocked
when you're shot
by the thoughts
that blow your mind
and help you carry on
at the same time.

I maybe grandstanding
demanding the handing
of banners back to the past
got citizens bleeding patriotism
cuz that cloth cuts like glass,
those symbols don't last.
After the harshest winds have blasted
flags just flap and go flaccid,
disintegrate brains like hydrochloric acid,
turning people into plastic
action figures that only think
and articulate in a certain way,
do what the corporate dynasties say
as the greedy businessmen repatriate
every cent they ever let us make,
while taking our rights and education away.

Fiery light from a dying star
Cools against your mocha thigh.
Desire formed like fingers
Rustles your hair’s dark light.

Body to body and breath to breath,
We are here and nowhere else.
Unposted selves,
Love without likes,
Hands without keyboards,
Voices in air,
The absence of absence.

I'm a porch distance
from other witnesses
trying to commit this
human wisdom
to other men.

I'm a poet
always writing,
inviting others in
to a shared understanding
but it doesn't matter
if I master
the technical skills,
if I can't relate
to what other people feel.

Then I'm still
just a second-rate hack
wearing an off-gray hat,
a Mayberry man
with two hands
on my gun belt
as I shoot myself,
whilst dumbfoundedly
wondering “how am I
going to come back
from that?”

It’s incomputable,
yet irrefutable.
Emotions are too
numerous to name,
range from strange pain
to shame, love, hate, and apathy
then back in again reworking
and adjusting what must be
excruciating
as inner monologues are debating
between placating the dissonance raging
or succumbing to one avenue that
let’s ****** picks specific emotions,
inspires wildfires, plucks devotion
from the rose of desire.
Till, that red flower expires
blooming and falling after
consuming all the air
inside and out there.
I don' t know who cares,
but empathy adds new levels
to this confusing and bruising
black brackish brew,
that mad man-made stew.
It is stirring, creating odd paintings
and then moving onto brand new
blank canvasses.
Who could manage all of this,
especially since it is just a fraction
of all actions.

I'm not nervous,
just searching for my purpose,
knowing that the word is
possibly the closest
I'll ever get to perfect.

I want you to take me serious.
So, you must be delirious
if you're not hearing this.

I didn't plan it,
but on this planet
people take for granted
the fruits of the labors
I've planted.
Some people can't even stand it
or comprehend.
I guess it just depends
on where they're coming from.

So, you demonize
great guys,
never realized
that those lies
you've been telling,
all that **** you've been yelling
is worse than the crap crack
that the corner street
drug dealers are selling.
Such a bad buzz cuz
it's buried so deep in your veins
that it’s burning out your brain
till the point no longer matters.
Has me crying and constantly rewriting,
echoing the same **** question.
“How many times can people explain
and you still can't understand a thing?”

But, I'm still writing love, holding out
hoping that all my doubt
wasn't right and that I
can still be the light
that burns the night
breaking *** barriers,
and stopping hate carriers.

Until, my artistry
becomes art history
and I finally figure out
what the point of my existence was.

I failed and my penance is
to visit this sick monument
to our shared statues of despair.

I cared and tried to explain
how we share pains
but my explanations
were made in vain.

I raged against
greed and violence,
tried to craft the most cogent
arguments to prop up love
over hate and ignorance.

I survived
and my reward
was to live for a lost cause,
cuz I wasn't good enough
to get through
to all of you.

Now, I weep for all the youth
who will never get to try,
never be born so they can never die.

It’s so frustrating,
what I’m watching,
seeing the hedonist
mealy mouth misogynists
getting up in all of this
social madness,
elevating and celebrating
America making a great end
when it's a hate trend
that's been a revolting revolving door
going out and back in again,
cuz it's making wealthy men
and politicians more money
whilst making plenty other citizens
edge towards revolutionary wars.