I’m repulsed
by callous jokes,
from wealthy blokes.

How rich men thrive
while the innocent die
choking on their own bile.

A thousand lives
of hard knock
lessons we learn
as businessmen
take their turns
making cities burn
with bombs
that blow up
leaving children
growing up
and crying out loud,
“I miss my daddy.”

I'm not Santa Claus but I'm hefty.
I'm not jolly cuz life left me
navigating deftly
across time zones
where minds roam
while I dream of a present
that presents positive possibilities;

Not Marvel’s what if comic book realities
that I used to collect,
but issues that direct
my heart towards acts of compassion
as I ask strangers what they are lacking
that makes them malicious actors.

I have not discovered the ultimate factors,
or removable variables
that would enhance our ability
to be superbly gifted soldiers
of love and humanity.

Weary, I'm still searching.

Seven shells for sale,
so what we got
could be bought
and what was lost
could not.

Searching the sandy beach,
hungry, all we caught
was an empty net
that wished to be
filled beyond belief
with the bounty of
that great deep sea.

Our children weep
and dream of stomachs
bursting with treats,
while hurting eyes meet
in the same discreet
heartbreaking defeat.

It is private,
inviolate.
Yet, I intrude,
dress up and abuse,
take their suffering
as my perfect muse,
take dark interludes,
and use them as cues,
as tiny clues
that lead the way
to make poems great.

Sorrowful inflections
become wordy reflections
worked to perfection
for my ego’s elevation,
for the ecstasy of creation,
and this drug I imbibe
gets me super freaking high.

Tears and stress,
bodies undressed,
hearts exposed
and in taking those
I become criminal.

Liminal moments,
seconds stolen
for the sake
of verses swollen
with emotional clarity.

I claim sincerity;
That I write these lines
to help closed mind
break the barriers
between truth
and what emotions mean.

But as these words meander on,
I wonder is it right or wrong
to write the painful songs
that do not belong to me.

I came to you
with games
and love
to spare,
with a heart
that cares,
seeking to
end despair
in favor of
a better world.

You came
with hate
and violence,
the will to silence
all those who
would be kind to
you and others to.

You bombed
and brutalized
told our people
horrible lies
to make them despise
the good guys.

You turned homes
into ****** battlefields
tortured and killed
cause it was a thrill
to sit back and make
more than a cool mill.

But one day
when you
refuse to change
I will come back,
attack with rage.
I will return your plague
with the self-inflicted
bitterness made
from thinking
things could be better.

I can barely catch my breath,
there’s a sea of swirling madness
bodies bursting with endless
tragic tears of sadness
and all the sobbing leaves me
heaving and breathless.

Wishing I’d see death less
and more days of happiness
for all the world’s children,
but I can always hear them
crying, begging, for heroes
who will save them.

Little girl amidst the wreckage
loves her people,
lives in fear of the evil
acts of other nations
as bombs burst her foundation,
and she is left feeling
lifetimes of devastation.

Years of boots on throats,
of truths I wrote
of true experiences
only slightly altered
by my lack of living in it.

but I can see the way they live it.
Fear, and sorrow, pain planted upon
the soft soil of childhood.

I can breathe but I
don’t think I should,
don’t think people are good
as other human beings suffocate
I don’t want to take their place,
but I would exchange pained
lungs and ease the air of despair
from their chest to mine
to give them time to repair
their hurting hearts
as they breathe in fresh oxygen.

I'm lonely
but only
temporarily
using these
words sparingly
as I search
this dark area
for some sign
of hope.

Weeping with pre-grief
because I see
uncertain future possibilities
as inevitable tragedies.

My brothers and sisters
seem strange and deranged,
lost in cycles of hate and pain
that drain the vein
of what’s humane.
  
So, I want to rewrite
the wiring inside
that has them dying
like others do
with withering emotions
that cause violence to brew
the kind that silences
the few who
would speak truth
about this mess.

I used to hold on to grand ideas.
I used to believe I could change
how all the people in the world feel.
So, I spoke out, encouraged doubt,
directing people to the tools they had
to distinguish what was good and bad.

But after I had a thousand doors
slammed shut on my smiling face,
after each blow cracked the smile
and tears were sent in to replace
hope for despair for the whole human race.
I just settled in to enjoy the show.

Some claimed my actions were cowardice,
but in truth I was barely handling it.
Now, I’m no longer striving for justice,
just speed walking one step out of line,
just breathing several second out of sync,
adapting but not accepting how
other people act and think
knowing that we are on the brink
of destroying almost everything.

What is a foolish poet to do,
but write what he knows down
and give to all of you who
will not even deign to read it,
as you take our planet and bleed it,
of every natural resource
and ounce of human compassion.

Every act of violence is like a bomb blasting,
and demolishing every bud of hope that tries to bloom,
and even though I want to laugh have to I cry
cause no matter how hard I try
I’ll have to sit and watch as we all die
too soon.

The wind whistles hard
in my own backyard
with a haunting tune.

No birds fly by in
the afternoon wind
cause the sky’s ashen
and the past won’t come
back in a flash again.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

Corpses sit in their
own piles of ****,
with no one left to
remember all of it.
The rot and the rage
killing king plague
that took over this place.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

Poison in the ground,
silence is the sound
that’s most harrowing,
rivers run their course
but time finds hope
always narrowing.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

I will be the last
child to tell you of
our strange tragic past,
the final recorded
voice that afforded
no hope or recourse,
cause life is the wife
from which we all got
a final divorce.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

They say it is time
to arm up your guards.
The enemy won’t get far
if we protect our own
front yard.

I say this isn’t
the battle that you think it is.
This isn’t a war you can win
with more violent actions.

They say
the enemy is at the gate
and this fight is what
will finally make us great.

The tools of destruction
won’t serve you here,
but words of compassion
and knowledge
will make our purpose clear.

They say to teach the history of race
will bring shame to our white face.
I say we need to learn,
so we can work to earn
the better world our children deserve.

That which divides
weakens all sides.
That which brings us together
bring hope into all lives,
cause we can unite
in love and understanding.

The corporate Kool-Aid
is not made to save
but made to play
big money games.

Business interests,
all of those investments
put men in bad positions.

Twisted ambitions
move forward towards
more and more
without exploring
what the opposite
of profit is for.

Infinite growth of capital
is impossible.
We will fall
like dominoes.

To gain people must be adept
at acting bereft
of any decency
of behaving without any empathy,
and if they get caught
other enemies of humanity
will grant them clemency
because they make the policies.

What was once illegal
becomes law you see,
but only for the real wealthy.

It is a sick form of necromancy
that resurrects bad aspects
of previous political ideologies,
and condemns good men
and women to poverty.

Today is dull gray
with dark shades
that portend
bitter ends,
as I keep yelling, telling
humans what’s coming.

Instead, of people listening,
I get the busted lip
of a trusted friend
trying to **** in
and help again.

Why should I
be surprised
when I get
a back hand
and black eyes
from those guys
whom I'm trying to save.

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.