She is the north star,

a precocious lie
I tell myself to get by,
but I wonder why
I feminize hope.

Is it that she intrigues
with what I think I need
to fulfill my basic being?

Is it because love
seems to be the highest thing
a poet can aspire to,
and desiring one of the few
who might be a little like me
and understand my artistry
gives me a modicum
of extra creative energy?

Or is it because
I am deeply in love
with death,
and being enraptured,
totally captured
by another
would smother
my identity
freeing me
from all suffering
by ending all I ever was
in favor of the new person
I might become in love.

It’s not rocket science,
and should be obvious.
Life is constantly changing,
bringing with it new forms of adversity.

So obviously we should meet
all of these new challenges
by embracing diversity,
learning how to see things differently
and growing into better
brighter human beings.

The past is
ashes,
burns as it
ask us
to do
what we must
to get by enough,
till time picks us
off.

It confuses
as it uses
all our truths
and illusions
to deludes us.

Nostalgic
daydreams
of never where
***** things,

fiercely fueled
solar flares
of incinerating despair,
with a gravity
that draws us
back to a path
that no longer exists,
to closest and corners
where we no longer fit.

The familiarity of all of it,
beating out the uncertainty
of a future we have yet see,
is so strangely appealing.

But I have a feeling
we should be living in
the here and now.

I can only pass on a fraction
of what I see and understand.

This language is a helper,
a cleaner, sharper,
sometimes meaner
gardener
that wants to trim
my branches
and clear the whims
and fancies
that I like to play in.

But there is so much more
than what I am writing and saying,
these letters and lines
are not fully portraying
the games I am playing
in my head to get a better grasp on
what is really going on
in this human situation.

When I am well-rested,
the best is all around,
all sights and sounds,
skin sensations,
but not smells
cause I can’t tell
one scent from another.

There are worlds that transcend
the energies we spend
trying to comprehend them;
Not magical realms
or fairytale fantasy lands
just undiscovered countries
of knowledge that man
has yet to get to.

When I look at you,
I see an unknown quantity,
family history,
strange ancestry
going back to
a gross glowing goo
that went through
so much to get to
become the full wonder that you are.

I see mental calculations,
physical exertions in repetitions
and multi planar movements,
a magnitude of observations,
and opportunities that were neglected
because you let your mind and body
redirect you from truths scientific.

I see the poetry of experiences
written on your skin,
reflected in your muscles,
and the wrinkles when
you are smiling.

When I am driving
listening to audiobooks
podcasts, or music
I use all of it,
try to imagine new
and inverted ways
to say what I want to convey
passing on what makes us great
and what I hate
about the human race.

But there is just so much,
and I don’t always have
the patience to write that way.

They are living, thriving
beautiful social beings,
out dining, and partying

while I am surviving
in solitary,
pondering,
reality,
observing
the wonderfully perturbing
to the dark and disturbing.

They are full throttle,
heavy metal,
foot to the pedal,

while I am indulging
my quiet disposition
a perfect position
to sit and question
what most take for granted.

They are spectacular,
each one raging with
a deep intensity
that I really dig,

and I just want to be
left alone to ponder
all of it.

To write starlight sparkles
of glimmering wonder
that shine in your eyes,
and reflect
the natural wonders
you love and respect,

or a smile that is as warm as
a bright summers day
with full flowing lips that open to say
kind, wise, and inspiring words
bringing blooms of joy
to all the lives you grace
with your energetic pace;

I know every human body makes poetry,
but somebodies speak clearer,
break through the deep blue hued
crystals made to confuse
all that humans once knew
straight to the inner light of you.

If ever you forget,
I will be incline to
remind you,
you are a poem of flesh
carved and molded
by space and time.

In a world void of
myths and legends
you are a nature goddess.

Please, don’t be modest
cause you are a bad ***
beyond measure.

He is tired
of being
unseen
as he sings
sweet dream
into everyone else’s days.

Tentative steps,
softened breathes
slowed as
others gasp
and ask
what was that.

Blurry visions,
of what was missing,
pillow imprints
slowly losing
any hint
of human warmth,
as humans swarm
buzzing about,
crying out loud.

“Where did you go?”

Tiny tracks
are filled in
with time’s
ever moving
persistence,
and all of the
grown ups missed it.


“Joshua!
Where are you?”

No clues to use,
no missing shoes,
just a wide open window.

Parents ponder,
wondering were could he go
without sturdy winter clothes.

They forget
all the things they said,
memories mingle
with regret,
and a fear of what is yet
to come.

How young was the sun,
how warm could he be
as his body grew numb?
Why would such a little one
let himself succumb
to the cold creeping
forever sleeping
winter ending.

Freezing
was so much more pleasing,
a releasing
of all that he was seeing,
and feeling,

better than the bitter drilling
of brutal home beatings,
and grade school cruelty.

He preferred being frosty.

Not too far from his house,
safely sitting in
a metal spiral
ditch drainage
culvert,

stifling
any shuddering,
letting each thin limb
give in
to winter’s mercy
as his revenge
against all of them.

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.

Can you listen,
pay attention
to the distance
between
the desire of things
and the need
to be freed,

when you hear it,
and can bare it,
be enveloped,
but not drowned
by the lack of sound,

tell the story
in all of its
gory glory,
feeling a fraction
of your former reaction,
but not letting
past pains
rule your brain?

Your story will
end the same
way it began,
and you can sing,

“Once upon a time,
I gave up what was
once on my mind.”