I dislike I despise
The stuffy minds
And the philistines
Wearing virtue signs
Like dressed figurines
In pop social themes
Or faux thoughts and prayers
Displayed on twitter feeds
For their attention needs
All superficial cares
And sophomoric ideologies
Demanding apologies
Like commodities
And all that that implies
I dislike I despise
Those who dramatize
Moralize and jeopardize
Like a line of merchandize
The free human mind
And all that that implies

i no longer know how to express my feelings correctly
i don't feel
i embody
i am hurt
i am anger
i am...
what am i?
who am i?
what the **** am i doing?
i have all of these questions and no answers
i'm so confused
i had a friend
she used to lie to me and tell me she loved me
she once told me that i was a daisy in a field of grass
and although that may be true
i feel like the daisy's been stomped on
and the field is infested with snakes
i am scared
i am lonely
i am weak
i talk to a shrink two times a week
she makes me feel okay
but then i realize that i can't sit in that coffee scented office for the rest of forever
that she's not my caretaker
who is my caretaker?
why has everyone given up on me?
why did she look at me and tell me she loved me and then bag my things up and dump me on somebody else?
why did he tell me i was unworthy?
why did he **** me?
why did my mom choose sleeping over looking at the sun?
or even better, watching her daughter look at the sun.
why did that girl in fifth grade tell everyone that there was dog **** on my floor so that no one wanted anything to do with me?
i am so sorry that my mother's inability to walk and pick it up made you so uncomfortable you felt the need to rid me of friends.
as if it wasn't hard enough having a mother who couldn't stand up long enough to make me mac n' cheese, or watch me ride a bike.
why did all of those girls lead me on?
saying they wanted me when they didn't.
telling me i was their best friend and they couldn't live without me when in reality i was just a meal ticket and a free place to live.
tell me why i look at the girl i'm in love with and can't accept that she loves me back?
tell me why i have to beg my father for a relationship and pray that i get a phone call every time a holiday comes around?
tell me why i've carved so many things into my body to make myself feel more whole?
tell me why everyone lies and deceits and manipulates and, and, and....
daisy in a field of grass?
now, i don't know about that.

Remember brother we didn't play with toys
we were two little toy soldiers
on two sides of the cold war
crawling on elbows and knees
in the backyard with a blackberry tree
firing at each other with invisible guns
our mouths echoing the rat-tat of bullets
and it was not blood that soaked us
but drops of heavily falling rains
upon soil long parched by the heat
exuding smell of love all over the wind
when the two would roll over each other
escaping from a war with no real enemies
pleading i'm wounded, don't shoot me.

We don't play wars any more brother
the cold war is long over
and we stopped being not enemies.

I visualize you
who I will never know,
Constant Stranger
I call you, I imagine
you when I write
and to think, you
will never know me
like the few who
I am close to, those
who say: I don't
understand what you
are talking about,
but I know what you
mean...you know
there is no other poet
on earth like me
and I know there is
no other poem in the uni-
verse just like you
and every two folks
have there own way
of loving, the poet
and the poem know
what they like, like
the kind that takes us
into different and strange
countries until we realize
at midnight, we are alone,
you and I, Constant Stranger,
anonymous mates whose love
can never be consummated.

To sleep, my mind impounded,
My heartbeats, bass, lowly-sounded,
Each beat, a note upon mine ticking meter.

An unfamiliar feminine voice, not hers, poses,
Questioning noises, issued from a blackened figure.

This human-shaped metronome,
A singular inquisitor,
In rhythm, but not in rhyme,
Gravely announces repeatedly,
T'is your time, t'is your time,

Each pronouncement,
Spoken n'spiked distinctly:

"Your prose now ended,
last-gentled sweetly."

Wondering still, is it just sleep or truly death,
This forlorn eve, to go, to meet and greet,
Without having said my finale prayer.

Unprepared, thus with unaccustomed flair,
"Unfair" doth me protest, a newly-minted naysayer,
My book incomplete, black-brother frere!

If death indeed you be, my fellow cloaked-rider,
Then make me a one-last-time composer.

Let me whisper once more inside her,
A last poem of the greatest brevity,
But of the greatest import, laden heavy!

Good bye, my love, goodbye....

This closing writ, my finest ever...

You're daring enough to have ventured into the night,
he sounded delirious in the wispy light.

Half a mile across the lagoon
moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows
would be digging holes in the sands
to lay their lives for posterity
away from the phosphoric melody
leaving the orphaned to find their way
once the shells cracked under silica.

They look like a procession of mourners,
the man whispered between strokes of oars
sloshing the rising tides of the channel
his deft hands rowing the fastest
cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay.

The night ripened enough by that time
unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea
slowing time in frameshot motions
of rows of celebrating marchers.

Dead of night the stars were burning out
and I called out to the boatman.

To this day I don't believe what I heard.

None was ever ferried back by the boatman.