The world melts this minor being,
and brings me bulging colors
that are bound to smother,
changing flavors that I savor,
and simple pleasures
for my leisure
into tiny tear glass droplets.

A kaleidoscope
that humans broke
but still strange swirls
geometric
help me through
the ***** that’s hectic.

I rebel against the entropy,
even as my own particles
turn against me.
Chaos is my mortal enemy
but still I seek structure
longing for order,
whilst knowing that it is all a lie.

I try to thrive,
despite how life splits me
eye from eye
offering inverted perspectives
as I turn inward
to find the shadows
and angles that built this
city of strangeness.

I fall to slumber
uncertain of it all.
Then awaken to spring
still waiting to fall
chilled by the feel
of December’s tentative tentacles.

It’s not a mission
just a transition
one step forward
but still remembering
where I came from
so, I can go on living for
what I aim for.

It’s not a vision
that I am pursuing
or a narrative
that is worth viewing.
It’s just a collection
of interacting moments
that I experience
without knowing
where they are going.

It’s not special
unless I declare it so.
It’s not harmful
unless I let be so.
There may be bad things
but they don’t own me,
and I can be better than
what this world has shown me.

It was stained glass dreams
of fire red rays
that burnt blood rivers
and sent blues sprays
of infinite squares
to cut up my madness
and sit me silent
in my stupefied stares
of chaos’s natural contemplation.

Sometimes,
when the shadows rise,
and lips spread wide
giving me a glimpse
of the otherside
of what might
be love,

I pretend
this is just my next friend
and tell myself
she is probably a lesbian,
that way I do not bother
risking any hope.
That way I can cope
by rationalizing away
any opportunity
to get my heart broke.

It is easy to be me
without adding the complexity
of hoping she may love me.
So, I can just be
her next nerdy buddy.

The glittering lights
Of the City below
Shimmer in the
Sunrise glow
As I perch on
My rocky throne
To admire them.
Neon snails slowly
Inch their way along
The distant highway.
Flocks of starlings
Spray themselves
Across the rosy sky
And I am content.
           LJM

Here is the fun spot
where the sun stops
for tiny gum drops.

Where I try and
pick pink pockets
with candy droplets,
devouring
the souring
lemons candies,
whilst my tongue
lavishes love on
long lollipops.

Where candy corn
and other sweets adorn
the dreams I try to ignore
cause I am hungry for
what I should abhor.

Yes, I miss my sweet mistress
of caramel treats,
and the boatloads
of cotton candy
that is swirling in
a tricky web of
addiction for what
I unconsciously love.

Once deeds spoke
of seeds stoked
with showers of
life’s breathing love
breeding hopes of
rebel poets and other
artists.

Now, you paint with
endless darkness,
as brush strokes
of dust motes
choke all of those
your greed broke.

I do not know
if we have the
strength to grow
and overcome
the cold blacked out sun
from which your
bitter heart sprung,

and the shadows
from which I run
from which this
dreamer’s heart is hung
to swing lifeless
like the corpses
of beautiful horned horses
and other fairytale dreams.

I cannot say if there is enough
beautiful fiction
to trick them
politicians
into doing what is right,
into trying to rewrite
the black void
into new light,

but this is the life
I choose to scribe.
This is how
I will choose to die
or thrive.

My good intentions our mine
and no one else gets to decide
what my purpose is.

Even when, half the time
I am confused as ****
about all of it.

There is a melody here
made unclear
by the clutter of
collecting stuff,

and though I can’t play guitar,
I can still whistle
white hearted tunes
to turn sour silent hours
into less ghastly
beasts of reflection.

So, this is just a little bit of
talk therapy,
in the form of
stream of conscious poetry.

Today, someone is missing a friend,
or mourning the loss
of someone who won’t
be back this way again.

Someone is listening to
the whispering winds,
longing to hear a ghost
that is whistling at them.

Somewhere tears stream,
and a mother screams,
dealing with the unseen
searing agony of losing
someone they loved dearly.

Today, on February seventh
of twenty twenty
I am telling you few
who happen to view
this poem
on purpose
or in passing
that nothing is everlasting,
and if this is the last thing
I ever get to say to you;

Today, there is at least one dude
sending out his love
to the whole night sky
and hoping it rains
or snows a whole load
of joy and light
into your onetime life.

There is a dark little shadow
that crosses my mind,
a whispering voice
that says
“Its just fine
to walk around being kind,
but don’t you dare be a hero.”

There’s a hustler’s voice
that coarsely calls out
with the weariness
of ages of doubt,
“do, do some good,
but beyond that
if you try to save that world
your gonna fall flat.”

But there’s a third little fella
that is barely perceptible
that find all these others
quite verily contemptable,
he is the hopeful dreamer
that hasn’t died yet,
with optimism that
hasn’t quite dried up.

He tries to tell me
“we can be better
and as that example
be a world trend setter,”

so, I smack myself silly
to silence that foolish child,
cause that little guy
isn’t too bright.

the unwanted compulsion
that enters unbidden,

the impetuous impulse
that refuses to remain hidden
cause it rages like a lava storm
frustrating and incinerating
every organic thing in its path,

such an inopportune occurrence,
a deeply resonating disturbance,
the deadliest and most addicting
drug of all,
a catastrophe worse than Lucifer’s fall
cause it has crushed more angel hearts
than any other heavenly disaster.

Logically, I should be afraid to fall,
and in my great wisdom try to avoid it all,

but the longing for love
makes a ******* and a fool of me.