I'm nauseous,
ready to *****
on these creeps
that caused such violence;

Tired of trying to solve it
cause the rubrics
of this cube
have multiplied stupid
times all of those who
follow the hollow
Cheshire moon smile
for miles and miles.

The media splits mobs
into mediocre redhatter's
screaming all lives matter
as they charged the capital.

It is in the past but
idiotic patriotic treasonous
fools who are reasonless
keep trying to whitewash
the **** we all saw,
makes me real raw,
want to gnaw off
my own arm
and runaway
from the harm
these buffoons caused,
trying to prop up
a lost cause.

I'm not made
for the marketplace
or the safe space
where people race
because they don't want to face
how it feels to be displaced
and treated like human waste.

But why is it
when dark dreams visit
they are as stark
as a shark's
sharp teeth
as those canines
are embedded in me?

Why do they shake
and take
bits and pieces
but never release
what this beast is
trying to eat,
making lines of liquid crimson
that swirl and dissipate
as I lose my conscious state?

I fight the fright.
I write
the nightmares that most prefer to hide
because my mind
is an art form
born in a **** storm
torn apart
for the hearts
that abhor
the dreams I keep stored
on my moist bathroom floor,
under my feet
where other monsters plan to meet
then come out to greet and eat me.

I remember there was time
when all I knew how to do
was write a simple rhyme.

When syllables were sounded out
and I never had any doubts
that people would come to
understand what I was
trying so hard to do.

But as the days went flashing past,
as every single poetic query asked
in hopes of harvesting
some sort of understanding
saw my heart’s standing
slowly decline and fall off the vine
to be crushed into pulpy and ****** wine.

Days of devotions
turned to weeks of
just going through the motion.
My grandest schemes
turned into dusty dying things
and my spirit withered
in the desert, starving
and dehydrating.

Now, I have a skeptic’s wisdom
and the dreams I once tried to
give to all who live
have become the victim,
eviscerated and desecrated
by the lies of those who thrive
on making Americans
into automatons
and all other humans hated
for not being dumb and isolated.

What is grief,
but the withdrawal symptoms
of a drug we may not have known
we were taking,
the transmogrification
of affection’s deeper emotions
into the compensation
and reorientation
of our strained
inner identity,
in the absence
of the loved ones
treasured presence.

I am sorry
that I am only
partly
here
and far away
in the same breath
while living
and sleeping
as stilly
as death.

Time
does not permit me
a true moment of
serenity,
cause my affinity
is for the cosmos
that I adore.

Furiously flashing
expanses
that have been
outlasting
every mortal thing,
all human beings
are just sparks
that play
small parts
in smaller hearts,
which is why
as time passes by
I am learning to fly
way past the night sky.

That’s why
I am not the guy
who could settle
for a simple life,

even when I am
holding your hand
I am dancing on
foreign lands,
toes twisting in
Martian sands,
and as it stands
I have big plans
to expand
what I understand
as I study to create
and elevate
my mental state
right past
the fictional holes
that blast
our fat *****
way beyond
purple space gasses.

Even though, I know
you to hold
multiple universes
inside,
I can only offer you
half of my mind
cause I am so gone.

An atypical yet spherical mass of spiritual
madness hides behind the mad mind of sadness.

It is poisonous but I am glad of this
biological drug sandwich
that is wrapped in my cerebellum.

I am crazy but I try to tell them,
all those children, women, and working men,
something is not quite right in this system
that tries to lie and sell them lots of corruption.

Reality is harsher than the scraping pavement
that savaged my already ravaged flesh,
tearing away tiny bits of skin and bleeding
barely perceptible drops of blood that are not compatible
with the white and gray grainy walkway.

Metaphors do not explain much anymore,
just cloud the conversation with pretty abstractions,
petty reflections not worth anyone’s inspection,
cause they are diarrhea of my own introspection,
a manifestation that seldom add ups to anything more than
other people’s interpretation.

No matter my intent these words
are just whispers in cyclonic winds,
I can’t imagine anyone cares enough
to let my strange thoughts infect them
with empathy and creative confusion.

Skin to skin
flesh pressing in,
till our shared
compressions
cause a ******.

Then we could
finally relax,
and I’d be
fine with that.

Passion and lust
are so stressful,
struggling to be
successful
in ******
competition,
to fulfill
our desire
with no
inhibition
is such a sloppy
kind of mission.

It is harder
to master
than nuclear fission,
so my decision
is to do it myself.

I have learned to look away
form the gleaming day
to embrace the shade,
to kiss the lips of my pain,
and smile nostalgically
knowing there is no hope for me.

I have learned to love
unpossessively
because any higher degree
would probably be seen
as super creepy
from this old and sleepy
crater sized cracked
heart hole that leaks
poetry which speaks
to the innermost of my
cringy crying ghost being.

In observing from
a digital distance
I have forgone
the need for any resistance.
You can be as dismissive
as you would like to be
and will not really break me.

I am super friendly
adoring
the heart you’re exploring,
whilst ignoring
any potential heartache
because a heart that breaks
from this far away
doesn’t hold any shape.
It’s just pretty little
glittering glass shards
sparkling and dancing
in the early spring
as I lay down to sing,
its crystal razors shredding
my heart from
the equal distance of
fantasies and the sun.

In person I would
happily succumb,
lay under your thumb
green with envy
for any other who
would challenge me
for just a fraction of
a chance to love and see
those feeling returned to me.

But on the internet
you are my sweet 2d
daydream that screams
blood curdling visions
of inspiration into my being.

So fatigued,
glued to
what I see
as heavy
lids pull me
down to sleep.

But just before
I am pulled to
the other shore,
where stars
and dreams
beckon me
to a place
beyond belief,

I lay pondering
all that I have been
squandering,
wondering
how long
can a road
roll on
till all
my family
is long gone,
till I can’t go on
cause I am
all alone
wondering what
else could go
oh, so wrong.

Sleep claims
that stress
that strains
my overtaxed brain
and I wake the next day
feeling ok.

I love rainstorms,
for their percussive
rhythm
that is relaxing,
and freeing
in hearing
and seeing
the soft trickles
these full clouds
are releasing.

I loved rainstorms
when I was younger
with a vengeful glee
cause I got to see
the children
who picked on me
disappointed.
While I was free
to sit and read
anywhere,
they could not go
outside
cause it was
wet out there.

I love a storm
cause my grandpa
would sit
and watch it
for a bit
while I watched him
draw circles on
the pavement
and see raindrops
painting
dark wet shading.

I love rainstorms
because I can
easily fall asleep,
but if I go deep,
they also keep
me safe
by keeping
others at a distance,
making it so
I don’t have to visit
anyone.

As a first-born son
of a terribly angry woman,
a lady of violent outbursts
and verbal degradation,
I love the rain
cause I feel safer
when the lightning
fractures the night sky
than I ever felt
when my mother
was nearby.

Many hearts could be broken
by the smallest token
of your strange affections;

How delightfully crushed,
cause hearts always want too much
as such jealous and hopeful
****** beating things
that turn out to be less agile
and more perfectly fragile.

As for me I will treasure these
sweet poetic interludes
at a safe distance from you,
cause I am certain
that you could put a major hurting
on my heart.

I will get small sparks
for little parts
of playful verses
throughout the day,
then type and save
them to my phone.
Eventually, working them
into to something by the end
of the night,

but if I don't have
any inspiration by evening's end,
I will play some instrumental music
I haven't listened to yet,
look at paintings online,
and read some poetry
from Tumblr till something hits.

Oh dear,
I would like to borrow tomorrow,
steal your tears and sorrow,
sip the salty water
from your well weathered well heart,
spend all the stars like currency
to buy you a bright new hopeful spring,
and hear you sing of poetic dreams,
of dancing fiends
who happen to actually be
super friendly,
while a little serpent slithers slowly
out of curiosity to a spot where we
can sit laughing at all that scars
our creative spirits.