I want to be swollen
with sweet word growing,
impregnated with that which
is made for taking darkness
and transmuting it into
a light of love for all to
fall comfortably into.

I want to take this language,
work and refine those fine
lyrical lines that make minds
turn towards acting kind.

But I have lost the eloquence
that was once my treasured gift,
and all that falls from my lips,
is red and brown drips of ****.
I’ve gone from child optimist
to exhausted adult cynic.

I have lost the fairies and dragons,
unicorns, and gentle care bears
and now dim dreams live there.

Vague impression of once vibrant
brush strokes, and dancing limbs
have giving in to warring men’s
disturbing intentions.
Nightmare too horrible to mention
have become my waking certainty.

But what is really bothering me,
is that it has become much easier
to accept this sick distorted reality.

The canvass of life has become
the splatter art of a billion broken hearts,
and I have mastered the skill
of numbing what I used to feel
in favor of current forms of
self-amusement.

It matters not
if in the end
all that I got
are a handful
of tender friends.

If my compatriots
do not forget
the goodness
that lives yet
in my poetry.

If only liars
and fools
speak ill of me,
but kindhearted
wise people
still feel
that I was
a man of
goodwill.

I know
nothing
waits for me
and eventually
I won’t even be
a fraction of
a lingering
memory.

But if
in these
minor instances
I insisted
on being kind
and that was
the worst trait
my detractors
could truly find.

Then I would be okay
to go out that way.

Sunday morning is a spiral
of dimmed lights
and despairing shadows,
of stairways to nothing
that dance in the distance
and turn around to find
time no longer binds
this strange and tired mind.

It is a body of fatigue,
so tired that it turns blind,
unable fathom
what was once
wondrously divine.

Windows no longer open to
a whole wide world
that I want to view,
but are closed,
painted black
with spider web
thin cracks
that let less than
infinitesimal light in.

Hope is made for forgetting,
until a long sleep
restores my stores
of optimism and inspiration
allowing poetic explorations,
as the windows open
to finally let more light in
and the stairways shift
restructuring themselves
to new realities
of delightfully
exciting possibilities.

The flame of madness
cracked and expanded,
holds hearts unplanted,
soil sick with slick
mind worms that take
turns gnawing through
the muck and the goop,
and the rotting wood to,
seeing moods shift from
angry, sad, then numb
to become all spent up
without any passions left.

Peasant eyes
tell pleasant lies,
but journeymen
are mastering men,
commanding them
to do their darkest
bidding,
leaving dreamers sitting
sad and dismayed
as the con artists run away
with the heart of what makes
love and language great.

Do not let me
be vexed by
exemplary
poetry.

Cause I am
lyrically
fantastic,
like other
lexical lovers,
and word writing
art brothers.

I love the
sweet
syllabic
ecstasy
of channeling
language
for my own
enjoyment.

It is pure
play
and self-pleasuring,
as I go one
measuring
my verbal dexterity
in combination
with clarity.

There is
a sad disparity
in what I write
and what gets through
to the masses who
find my art
hard to digest.

It is a self-serving mess
in which I express
an observance
of the madness
of merely writing
and not expecting
others to grasp
half of it.

The sun
no longer
streaks the sky
but seeks to die
as I try not to cry.

I am too tired
to create
anything I deem
great.

Over dependent
on stimulants
to wake up to
a creative vision.

Brain fogged
to the point of
being a rotting log
wasting space,
just waiting
to decay.

In my
fatigued state
there is a fear
I may never make
decent art again.

But I rest
and get up
to type out
something
beyond my doubts.

One poem,
the first of
the week,
a stumbling piece,
not my best
but a relief.

I’m already unmoored.
My heart turns sunward,
as my eyes look onward
towards towering distances.

As glowering visages
scowl inwards,
poisoning their innards
with all that stress,
walling in hate
and dying in that
disgusting place.

Cowards cower
loosing seconds,
minutes and hours
to the anguish of
forgetting how to love.

But I am
the whispering
walker waking in
the early morning
and working on
my poetic warnings.
Even though, my boat
is already untethered
and I have already taken
off in this wild weather.

I say what I can,
give them a piece
of this tired mind,
and leave mankind.

My ship takes sail,
as they let themselves
sink into their own hells.

**** your high society
and your sense of propriety.
It violates human decency,
suffocating what's unique in me.

So, I prefer the freaks.
There is beauty
in the scars underneath,
the experiences that free
true artistry and empathy.

I don't behave properly
and could never be that stodgy,
dodgy trickster that tries to
live up to a standard no one fits in.
I'll take the stew of life and mix in
different perspectives,
cuz I'm not made for
your standard objections,
or corporate objectives.

Rules and norms are always changing
relatively rearranging
base on social standings
and mood fluctuations;
So, I will pass on all of that.

It is better to know up front
that I don’t fit in,
so there’s no way I can win.
Especially when,
I can't be classified as a normal guy.

Hell, I don't know why
someone would even try.

They try to keep
the deep blue deep
inside a plastic cup,

but I open my eyes,
point them towards
the turquoise sky
flying but never
getting high enough.

Break the clouds,
pierce the veil,
reveal the stars
that cook themselves
like I do.

Circle the curve
of time and space,
faster than the pace
I make to take
first place
in life’s race.

Inside my skull
a universe unfolds
as I write new rules.

Falling faster
as the atmosphere
incinerates my skin.

What horrible pain,
what a terrible shame,
but like the phoenix
I want to burn
and rise again.

I am not the mystic sword
imbued with powers
and stored in a
gray scarred stone,
not wielded well
but a time worn,
battled weary blade.

There was no fate
for which I was born.
Instead, I was
weighed down
by a heavy heart
pumping out
uneven beats
of poetry
to the point of
collapsing.

The future was
not something certain
but patterns
easily perceived
recognizing what
I’ve seen,
I kept trying to
tell you the truth
and it broke me in two.

Like the oracle,
I saw through
to what life had in store
if people refused
to really use
the brains they
were given,
but no one
would listen.

So, with a tattered scabbard
my edges were dulled.
I lost my sharpness.
My bladecont.
reflected all the world’s darkness.
Until I could no longer see,
past the fog that caused this
tragic madness.

There’s a cauldron bubbling
with all that’s troubling,
doubling dangerous ideas
that might someday
thrive here.

There’s a hub bub dubbed
frivolous, a contrivance
sprung from some pittance,
some door that was locked before
but now welcomes admittance.

There’s a dream between us
fanciful as a carnival
and as adventurous
as a traveling circus.

Soft slippers swirling,
dancers twirling and whirling
like a whirlwind of
brown hair spinning.

Inspiring spiraling spires,
while neurons fire
arms flail in exaltation,
an ecstasy of what could be
culminating in brand new dreams.

These rare things,
like gems sparkling,
go on harkening
to some happy future
whilst dulling the pain
of past darkness.

Is it strange to say,
I rarely feel this way?
Is this hope and joy,
that has been deployed
for my own amusement?

I dream of all the poetry
the world has written for me,
all the visions that I see
of sweet swelling glory.

A fountain of eternal stories,
a well of rushing water
ready to run over
and wash away
all the filth of despair
and give me something
for which I can care.

Green leaves over there
grand stars in the sky,
grey clouds fill the air
whilst kind hearts make me cry.

When I am well rested,
my spirit is invested
in all that surrounds,
all those sights and sounds,
a fabulous parade
of colors and shades.

In love and heartbreak,
I write what I take,
think, and explore
philosophies
and sights I adore.

Bursting at the seams,
crying out “I want more.”
There is always
something beautiful
just beyond the evening’s yawn
before and after
all of my dreams are gone.