This is an
ego boosting
brag poem,

made to dazzle
others and show’em
how clever I am.

Cause the depths
I swim in
leave other men
dribbling, drooling,
and drowning.

The waters dark
that I chart
still chill the
bravest hearts,

and the horizon
I rise in
like the phoenix,
though burnt
flies and fries
the clouded skies.

I see sullen fools
flee frightened
from the fiery light.
They despise me
for my wit
and geniality,
for the talents
I have nurtured
and the artistry
I have sired,

drawing universes
from the fires
in which
they smolder
and expire.

I don’t know how to hunt,
and I am less then adept at fishing.

I cannot fix mechanical stuff
but I’ve mastered the art of *******.

I got a gift for creating laughter.
I’m an awesome singer,
but a sub-par social actor.
I’m an ok artist,
and a masterful writer,
a decent observer,
of human behavior,
and an above average fighter.

So, if this is the end of the world
and you are looking for useful survivors,
I would not pick me first.
Even though, I can keep the mood lighter.

We are just little vessels,
precious porcelain angels
or rounded rebel devils
driven by what is inside
and how it interacts
with our outer facts
or our minor perspectives
distorted by different aspects
of our faulty flesh perceiver,
that super stimulus receiver.

We are many ecosystems
not singular structures
but a collective composed of
cellular and atomic dimensions,
too many to calculate or to mention
that are beyond our comprehension.

Conscious and unconscious
neural highways
or the many limbs on a tree
that have no leaves
but branch out and leave
as we learn new things
whilst pruning unused circuitry.

Therein lay a space
where poets dream and play,
a multiplicity
of connected
and disconnected
multiverses.

So complicated.

I touch the pillow and breath in,
the waning scent of your leaving.
I whisper to the gray wisps of
crying clouds that are grieving.
I clutch the cross of mysteries,
the token you left for remembering,
the metal ornament that cut
scratches in our spiritual love,
refreshing each gaping wound
that you gave me.

Your eyes are like red wine
to a drowning alcoholic,
with lips and skin like ******
to this addled brained addict.

So, I put your portraits up
in my old musty attic.
I took down your paintings
cause the heart of the art
was always so paining.
I placed all of your clothes
in a black glad trash bag
in the back of my shed
where no one else goes;

So, the next time someone
comes looking for a door,
they won’t find any.
All the entrances to my heart
will be securely locked
and no one will get in there
anymore.

I’ve built my life
on a body of bruises,
on singing with
a cringing grin
and never letting
anyone in,
really.

I’ve done my time
with plastered smiles
that hide my shame
and mask a pain
I still can’t truly
give a name.

I’ve given mercy
to every person
except for two.
If you need it
I’d offer it to you
before I ever granted it
to the mirror man
or the motherly beast
who beat him down.

I’ve walked a lot
and ridden fast,
been driven hard,
Still, I can’t escape
what’s in my past.

But I could really
use a win right now.

The fear is that I will disappear,
and no one will even notice
that I am no longer here.

The concern is I can’t stop this
pointless
rhyming scheme,
which has become
sickening.

Between these two things
I know there is so much
that I am certainly missing.

Maybe the deeper fear is
in focusing on what is clearest
I am really missing a
whole world of connections.

Just a couple of inches
till I am almost there,
just a couple seconds
and someone might care.

But right now, no one
is asking how I feel.
I just keep checking in
on everyone and that’s
how I manage to deal.

No ghosts in the attic
but I am haunted.
No Mary Shelley
Or Lord Byron
but this is gothic.

A tingling sensation
like it’s my spider sense
cause I know what horrors
are cooking in the cauldron,
those bad vibes are a boiling.

5.

What a peculiar thing
Fate is
I said to Free will
As I traveled back up
all the layers
of Hell

I’m a Conquerer
of the ******
The *****
Sinners thanked
for making Hell
fresh again

Out on the
loose and
looking for new
prey
Behaving like a Tyrant
I broke away from
these chains

As I level up
I’m given
Angel status

But no man gave me these wings
And no man will take them away
My Man is a algorithm
Exceeding past limits
It’s the best I ever had

Born a primal poet in
the shadows of the
Grey alleyways
My mind is a
dangerous place

Even the Gods
go to war
over the crazy
stories I create

I give kindness freely
as if I had an eternity
of time to share my
gentlemanly disposition.

But trust is reserved
and given only in
minor increments.
It is mostly
non-existent.

Gentle as I am
I resist the urge
to trust a stranger.
Given kind words
even the familiar
seldom earn
my highest esteem.

For what I have seen,
honesty is less enticing
the travesty of finding
fellow friends lying
and vying
for their own interest
has left me introverted.

Even love is held back,
because I do not want
to give anyone that
which could mortally
wound me.

My eyes overflow
with her natural
glow that grows,
the beauty of youthful
innocence
perceived in this
pleasant instance,

a chaos of undisclosed
secrets that
only she knows
and a body that flows
brilliantly beneath
her soft clothes,

a poetic mind,
a delicate find
who graces me
with a brief evening’s
meeting,

a friend
just this side
of this dreamer’s life.

I wonder what
it would be like
to touch those
soft cheeks,
to cherish and guard
her sweet artistry
when in hidden
fantasies
wonderful words
are gifted to me;

So lovely,
lonely,
and melancholy
as all dreams
that are never
meant to be
become.

The hurting heart does not decide
which piercing pain lights their life,
does not contend, but sits and pretends
by doing barely more than living
even though they are seriously struggling,
they are surely winning this sixth early inning.
Till, thinning scabs and fetid breath
gives way to blooming fresh rosy flesh.

The spiral rises to brighter skies
then begins to weave and descend
returning the burning heart
to familiar shadows, of snow
cold groves.