This is not a prophecy.
This is just me
proffering what I see,
offering thee poetry,
cuz words are free.

I am being super selective,
plucking past perspectives,
and putting them in poetry,
then projecting forward
from them,

and in some of those moments
I've made predictions,
but those were from
human’s obvious predilections,
those sick predispositions
which led to the onslaught of war
and so many more
human atrocities.

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.

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.

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.

I got no patience
for these agents
of deliberate corporate contagions,
or the minefield that yields
the bootstrap philosophy
that never actually worked
in this society.

The *** was not romantic.
It was the rapid succession
of flesh pulling and pressing,
pushing, and pounding,
sounding of deep heated passion,

no intellect involved
just pure raw uncoordinated
pleasure pursuing
by two who were viewing
a moment of unfiltered
animalistic movements.

I cannot seem to write
without rhyming.

It is not a simple matter
of timing
but has become
my mental wiring.

I find other
non-rhyming
poets so inspiring
so deeply
neurally
firing,
sparking
inspiration.

But my brain
has lost the ability
to make any poetry
without playing with
rhymes.

I am depressed.
because unless
humanity passes
this last test
we will be
putting our
species
to rest
post haste.

There is outrage.
Pain on open display,
as blood paints
the driveway.

There is economic
uncertainty,
so many people
struggling
financially.

There is fear
that the enemy is here
and it is not
a person or a group
but a virus.

There is tension,
built into the system
causing chaos
and destruction;

A boiling ***
that will not stop
till the top
pops off,
as loud as
the bullets shot
by cops.

Pressure building,
from painful feelings,
sorrow spilling
into to verses
as the poet
converses
with himself.

Writing all about
the madness that is
all around,
as the pipes
prepare to burst. cont.

Lines of words
release the valve
to let all of
that steam out,
and he is free
to go about
his daily duties.

Until, the gravity
of everything
start pressing down,

and he repeats the process
to stop this
from completely
crushing his
entire being.

You are so beautiful that you compelled me to write
And so I wrote about you with my favourite pen
Every day.. I poured my soul out for you on the pages of my diary
The pages would beg me for mercy
But I just couldn't stop
I'd write about every facet of yours
I'd describe the magnificence of your beautiful soul
The incredible moon like beauty of your face
Your long black locks of magic
Your deep blue ocean eyes
Your ridiculously charming smile
I wrote about it all
And then one day the nib of my pen broke
And your memories and thoughts were left hanging in the ink
I could no longer capture them on the pages of my diary
I was so heartbroken and frustrated
I wanted to write about you so bad...
And so I tried with a new pen
But with a different pen...It just wasn't the same
The thoughts just refused to flow
My hands would tremble
I'd just keep staring at the pages
I miss those thoughts of you
I miss the emotions that I wanted to write about you
I miss capturing you through my words on the pages of my diary
My colourful diary is now an assortment of blank white pages
My diary which was once filled with life now has turned into a graveyard
I miss not being able to write about you