The cool blue aquatic,
silver fish swimming
whilst shimmering green,
is such a beautiful thing.

The cute colorful clown fish
wiggling,

The turtle slowly moving
across that underwater world.

The rapture, of something
so pure,
or at least the illusion
of ocean life purity
is a relief to me.

A nice break
and what I need to see
to escape this
terrible tragedy
we call humanity.

It is the pink parchment
of desire which he wishes
to devour that which is
delightfully delicious.

With lip and tongue impressions
marking ecstasy’s visions
his passion is his artistry
even when given in passing.

This evolved lover of loving,
master stoker unleashing
a sea of swelling waves.

Resolved hardened by soft moans
knows in this moment he owns
each ounce of ecstatic attention,
each breath of pleasure given
an explosion to multiple conclusions,

and then it is his turn to erupt exhausted
and sleep soundly satisfied.

The ***** water ripples,
and darkens
as grey clouds of diffusion
are cleaned from the brush.

Paints put away
the artist changes his pace
as the pointed quill
is dipped in,
and pulled from
the ornate glass vessel.

Deep dreams are drawn
as parchment feels the imprint
of this writer’s full intent.

Reality unfolds transcendent
as all dreams and philosophies
are finally released on these
small scraps of transient things.

I’ve given up
on finding true love.

I’ve given up
on my writer’s fantasy.

I’ve given up
on my faith in humanity.

I’ve given up
on hope for a better future.

I’ve given up
on changing the world.

All that have is here and now,
enjoying life,
and just being kind.

Too ambitious,
too **** vicious,
watches suffering
and thinks
that’s delicious,
I can use it.

Gets the crowed
crowing,
stirring rage
hatred growing,
a perfect way
to stop them
from thinking,
and getting them
drinking
that bitter Koolaid.

Turns a cheap phrase
into a simple slogan
turns a bitter man
into a bomb exploding.

So, the rich men
get richer,
the middle gets scared,
the poor gets trampled,
and only a handful
notice and care.

I lost Jupiter
in a crumpled notebook,
as my pale white
queen of the night
passed me by
and got on with her life,

and my sweet potato,
fellow fairy poet
has long since
vanished.
Don’t I know it.

I’ve parted ways
with many friends
who will not
message me again,
and I miss each of them.

As they go,
so do I
disengaging
from these sites
as tiny bits
of my poetics
are divested
then invested
in friends that
discard the heart
I handed them.

Sometimes,
I wonder
if they remember me
or if I was just
a passing word fancy,
indulged and forgotten
in less than a breath.

On brighter days,
I summit the sky,
then fall to escape
the rest of the world
that I try to
keep at bay.

I hit the water hard,
play in it like
it’s my own
backyard
swimming through
the deep salty blue
clear water view.

These are my daydreams,
a mind stream
I used to find
a line to rhyme
and work
poetry from my
ravaged mind.

On darker days
when the moon is
obscured by
a clouded sky
and fog moistens
my gray tinted window;

When the crow caws,
and the creepers claw
striking out in rage.
Taking this terror,
I paint my poetry page
with weird lines.

In the noon hours
I seek inspiration
from a nap,
waking refreshed
with a wonderful
dream reflection
slipping through
my bleary mind.
All points of inspiration
belong to me,
as I struggle to find
the right line.

Common people called him stingy
And with his funds he was.
But he was parsimonious
In areas that they never saw.

                Epitaph
True, he never spent a dime
If he could get it free.
He never wasted any time
That anyone could see.

He didn’t have much love to give
And wanted no love back
He had a certain way to live
Laid out in white and black.

He didn’t give and didn’t take.
He had no use for friends.
He died alone and that’s the way
This kind of story ends
                      ljm

There are texts and stories
etched in and beneath
the skin we see,
that makes certainty
an arrogance beyond belief,
while same said suffering
can make monstrosities;

but you don’t have to
like or love the beast
to see with empathy
the place from which
their tragic tale came.

Who knows
what wonder grows
waiting to explode
from those who show
no signs outward?

Who knows what pains
burn from within,
what sick shames
stirs her or him
to inflict suffering
on themselves
or cause ****
for others who
never deserved it?

Who can read
beneath the flesh
that they see
and find depths
of ****** reds,
of wretched raw
tears that claw
at the surface,
raging for revenge
against those who
hurt us?

Who knows?