It is a shame
that true gems
are not given
the light they need
to sparkle spectacularly,
whilst dull coal figures breed
contempt and greed,
spreading the diseased seeds
of creative mediocrity.

We mere mortals
are not granted
greats spans of time,
cannot cross
the expanse to find
the coal has compacted
cause the fact is
that practice
will outlast us.

New beauty perceived
will be retrieved
long after death’s
dark and dangerous reprieve
has collected our tired forms,

but I prefer to be
awed by the artistry
that you share gracefully,
exposing exploding shards
of your rapidly beating heart
along with the other parts
that presently bleed poetry profusely.

I have passed out
tiny parcels,
perfect little
packages
filled with
my hopefulness.

Given the essence
of my impermanence,
pursued truths
to earn a bit,
but my restlessness
has me rushing towards
shocking storms
of lightning and loving
all that is a detriment
to my mental health.

A poet obsessive
observing and writing
perspectives I didn’t earn,
and in turn
passing them down
like I am a clown
all painted and streaked
while tears leaked,
aching for what
I never seek.

I have given dreams.
In fantasies
chased the lips of
someone I could love,
fantasized about sweet lies
as she would whisper sweetly
echoes of my feeling.

Poetry presented prosaically,
as everything I am, will be,
and was, with just a pinch
of what I will never see.

I am ill-equipped
to take a trip
down the bits
of a broken
rainbow road.

All sparkles
and glittering
a smattering
of shattering
glass reflections
that shred my
bare feet
as I am
journeying
down these
colorful streets.

I’d prefer
the more disturbed
shadowy
sidewalks
in the city of
forgotten loves
and lost memories.
A realm with
clouds that flit
from one
gloomy day
to the next.

I guess
I’ve just
become adapted to
grays and blues,
stray hues
that I use
to paint a world
where abuse
is just the dimming afterglow
of a happy ending tv show
where I learn a lesson
but don’t really grow.
I write but don’t know
why the sirens scream
and poets sing
similar sorrows.

Maybe, I should borrow
Cinderella’s glass slippers
so those rainbow shards
won’t bleed my feet,
and when I finally
fall asleep to meet
someone strange and sweet
my dreams won’t keep
waking me in tears.

If you want to get your soul
stole by some swolle bro
then I know a place where you can go,  
but if you're looking for something
more like a lover who wants to
explore new venues with you,
to dance on distant shores,
those soft sandy beaches,
see swirling sea storms
and similarly moving whirlpools,
volcanic expulsions of passion’s ecstasy,
or the insatiability
of the cosmic spectrums and eternity
mingling with infinity,
if you want poetry to try to see
everything that is beyond belief,

then I highly recommend me.

In my desire to understand,
I have questioned everything
out of existence.
The very essence
of my being
has become a flickering thing
struggling to remain present.

All passions, pains, and pleasant
memories
are just flutterings
from a dying butterfly’s wings,
fading faster than I can react.

We could be just a dream,
or a simulation within
another very well written
simulation, ad infinitum.

I think therefore I am,
and I am certain that I can,
at least I think I think
or are all thoughts merely
unrestrained subconscious
reactions that become conscious.

So, what more can I expect of you
because in my pursuit
of knowledge
I cannot say for certain if I exist
and in that strange context
I have questioned you
right out of existence
as well.

One poem a day
is what I try to attain.
I don’t even require
that all of them
are great,
but today
I need three poems
get me to
the weekly objective
I set for myself.

So, I am searching through
that pulpy goo
and purple ****
to find the rind
that sits and fits
in my imperfectness,
because I fell behind.

Now, I only need two.

Life is as slick
as the sand in which
your hand slipped
and now you fall
sinking in it all,
wailing in a pain
for which you
are not to blame.

So, when you’re feeling
tense and full of doubt,
I can be your armchair.
You can put your arm there,
rest your head on me,
knowing that I really care.

I got two good ears
ready to listen to you my dear.
Yes, I’m here to hear
whatever you wish to reveal,
cause I am a comforter.

Clarity is a rarity,
clouds cleared
so, I can see
sunny shades
radiate before me,

and it only comes
with a good night’s sleep,
whilst eating healthy,
exercising, reading,
chatting, and thinking.

I saw hate scrawled
on rest stop walls.

I know how it is scratched in
the American skin
so deep that it has become the origin
of our country's identity,

but listen up closely
this isn't how it's supposed to be.

Cause you are as sweet
as the nectar from a tangerine;

As vibrant as the sounds of the tambourine,

though you let that corporate machine
destroy the music and taste of your being.

Mass media making a monstrosity of the populace,
turning crowd to this horribleness
that spits slanderous statements
of how and why we should hate other
men, women, and children,
how to see them as less than human,

but we are all sisters and brothers
in these struggles.

We suffer similar maladies,
falter and fail because of our shared
frailty and fallibility,
but I believe we have the ability
to be so much better.

I got forty-one exhausting years
of lessons in my rearview mirror,
some harsh, some painful,
some pleasant, some shameful,
but I don’t think that I am able
to overcome that education.

I’ve heard that steady drumbeat
pounding out a lot of doubt,
interlaced with the face of desire,
and in my love or lust I’ve
let my heart be hopefully inspired.

The curve of her jaw line,
the sweater slowly rolling over her flesh,
the breath that rises and falls beneath
her *******; her dreams and thoughts,
I long to hear, willing to pay any cost
to hold my dear near and listen,
just listen to what she wants to share,

and *** of course, sweet *******
after and before our delightful discourse.

But with each rejection I have become divorced
from expectations and any patience
with potential lovers.

With each observation, seeing how people
hurt each other, how they smother
or abandon, I find I am done with them.

Angry at myself and those women,
seeing them chose someone else
and falling victim to the despair
that I find there when they decide
they prefer the violent guy.

So, I take my lessons and eat them,
love can just leave me be,
cause I will not join or beat ‘em

Your face seems to be all I see
whenever I close my eyes.

why does he haunt me?
a ghost of love we never truly had,
how could I miss it?
You?
..him?

Memories flash through my head
like daggers to the chest.
Wounding me seemed to be the target
before our first encounter.
To gaze, unbothered,
at something so innocent
while envisioning
how to bring me to my knees.

did I love you? or did I love the idea
of you loving me?
I’ll never truly know
because you are a ghost
of my past.

and ghosts don’t answer questions.