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I'm really running
Tripping really
Slipping in the rain
Through any puddles
I can find
Keeping clouds above me
Whichever way they go
And wind in my face
Or on my back
As long as I can still feel
I can forget
I'm running out of time.
These halls seem somewhat hollow
A certain sense of sorrow
Now graces ancient stone.
Replacing familiar faces
With defaced family paintings
And cold ancestral bones.
Thrones thrown upon a pyre.
Fate becomes the folly
Tomorrow the unknown,
The brows of time are furrowed
Past spent, lost, or borrowed
Flowers forever bloom alone.
Rats, the last lords of ruin
Rule cruel shadows from the walls.
Twilight sighs at daylight's rise
All seems dark till darkness falls.
 2d
JA Perkins
"You're a half step
behind", she said.
"You don't have to
chase the beat..
Just let the rhythm
oil those bones",
she laughed, "and flow
to your two left feet..
It's nothing you have
to try to do.
We're all born to dance.
But some are just
too self-aware and won't
give themselves a chance"

Then she smiled and put
her hand in mine and
it calmed my busy brain.
And the whole night
we spent cheek to cheek,
dancing in the pouring rain.
Just dance
 2d
badwords
Beneath the surface of our giving,
A quiet echo, always living.
The hand extended, the gift bestowed,
Holds traces of what the heart is owed.

In every act of kindness shown,
A seed of self is always sown.
A smile exchanged, a burden shared,
The giver leaves their soul ensnared.

Transaction speaks in whispers faint,
Not loud enough to mar the saint.
Yet woven in the tapestry,
Is the thread of reciprocity.

Evolution’s pen, so deftly writ,
Has carved the rules; we benefit.
To give is to connect, survive,
To keep the fire of bonds alive.

But purest light, we chase, we yearn,
For altruism that won’t return.
A gift devoid of self, of gain,
A spotless deed, untouched by stain.

And here, the fallacy takes form,
A standard raised against the norm.
To cast aside what’s real, profound,
For lofty heights that can’t be found.

For in the real, the flawed, the small,
Lies beauty woven through it all.
A kindness fraught with give and take
Still soothes the wounds that living makes.

Should we dismiss imperfect grace,
Because it wears a human face?
Or hold it close, and see it whole,
A blend of heart, and mind, and soul.

The saintly act, the selfish cheer,
Are not as distant as they appear.
For even joy in giving free
Forms part of our humanity.

So let us honor deeds once spurned,
Where subtle trades of trust are earned.
And measure worth by what is done,
Not by the motives of the one.

For if perfection is the goal,
We’ll find no virtue in the soul.
Yet in the flawed, the fractured light,
Shines something real, and something right.

Reflection
Altruism is no saint’s domain,
But the hand that lifts through joy or pain.
A mirror held to humankind,
Revealing heart, and what’s behind.
A Reply to:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4926937/what-about-me/

**Synopsis**
This poem, Altruism's Mirror, explores the multifaceted nature of altruism, juxtaposing the realistic, transactional aspects of human kindness with the idealized concept of selfless giving. The verses acknowledge that altruistic acts, though often celebrated as purely selfless, are deeply entwined with human psychology, biology, and social constructs.

Through vivid imagery and reflective tones, the poem weaves a narrative that critiques the pursuit of "pure altruism" as an unattainable standard, likening this pursuit to the **Nirvana Fallacy**. It invites the reader to embrace the imperfection inherent in acts of kindness, emphasizing that flawed and transactional altruism still holds profound value in fostering connection, survival, and mutual support.

The poem also highlights the inherent beauty in altruistic acts, regardless of their underlying motivations. It challenges the dismissal of acts deemed "impure" for carrying elements of self-interest, reframing them as authentic expressions of humanity.

**Artist’s Intent:**
The poet aims to reconcile the tension between the ideal and the real, urging readers to move past the binary of "selfless" versus "self-serving" acts. Through this piece, the artist seeks to celebrate the complexity of altruism, emphasizing that its worth lies not in its perfection but in its impact. By embracing the transactional nature of giving as part of the human condition, the poem calls for a more compassionate and pragmatic view of altruistic behavior.

Ultimately, Altruism's Mirror is a meditation on human nature, inviting readers to find beauty in the nuanced interplay between generosity, self-interest, and connection. It challenges the notion that altruism must be pure to be meaningful, suggesting that the flawed, everyday acts of kindness are the truest reflections of our shared humanity.
3 a.m.

the dying town, dark moon,
the wolf lurks in a concrete tomb.

fallen friends and picnics at the graveyard,
empty stores and sidewalk ******.

streets of sorrow--
one-way roads to no tomorrow.

shadowed eyes, whispers in bars,
fallen angels, shooting stars.

sirens wail the ****** night,
and in every traffic light burned red
time never stops for the dead.

the ****** on the corner.
none to morn her fate,
a wink and a whisper,
"do you want to go on a date?"

the black butterfly,
soul of sorrow,
no echo, no refrain,
lost in silence, bound by pain.
 May 25
Fumbletongue
A kite once soared with a wish in its tail,
To catch a great gust and ride on the gale.
But the sky was too still, not a breeze to be found,
So the kite came to rest on the soft, silent ground.

“I’ll fish for the wind!” the kite boldly declared,
With a spool and some string, it felt quite prepared.
It cast out its line to the clouds way up high,
Hoping a breeze might nibble nearby.

It waited with patience, its tail twitching light,
Under the sun and the stars through the night.
It sang windy songs in a fluttery tune,
And baited the hook with a whisper from June.

Then—tug!—went the string, the line gave a wiggle,
The kite gave a cheer and a dance and a jiggle!
Up it went flying with wild windy zest,
A breeze on the line and the sky in its chest!

Now every young kite, with a dream and a reel,
Knows fishing for wind takes patience and zeal.
For sometimes the sky gives a gust as a gift—
To those who stay grounded but still hope to lift.
 May 23
Memento mori
You'll never see my weep,
The pain's seeping into my bones, through the depths of my soul.
I'll embody it untill I can feel no more.
I've come to enjoy it, to relish in it.
It's become apart of me.
I've already drowned in it, I've let the waves of my emotions drown me in the riptides and destroy me against the coast.
In the agony of hurricanes, in my mind I stand alone. I'm fated to make my choice, I'll heal by burning.. I know..
Untill all is left is ash, I'll find myself.
 May 23
badwords
We are not survivors.
we are residue.

the soot that lingers
on collapse's last tongue.

entropy's loiterers—
spiteful, unfinished.
neurons in feedback.
systems with no gods.

the architects left
when the scaffolds imploded.
we cradle their blueprints
like scripture in ash.

rebuild?
with what breath?
with what myth?
our dreams are famine-shaped.

nirvana is a severance package.
emptiness sold
in velvet robes.
a silence that never asked
about wreckage.

so we sharpen our vowels.
scribe ruin in elegy.
chant hymns for dead logics.
leave witness marks
in the marrow of this glitch.

we were not chosen.
we remained.
“Failure Spiral // Witness Marks” is a blistered fragment from the edge of philosophical exhaustion — a poem that resists salvation with surgical precision. Cast in scorched economy, it unspools a mythic post-mortem of civilization, depicting a world not built but inherited — a residual loop of cascading failures mistaken for history.

The voice is not that of a prophet, but of an archivist trapped in recursion — mapping entropy with a cartographer’s detachment and a poet’s poison. In this world, survivors are no more than loiterers of meaning, spectral stewards of systems that have outlived their gods.

There is no crescendo, only a ritual of reckoning. Each line is a witness mark — the scorched etching of presence, absence, and the irreparable fracture in between.
 May 23
Fumbletongue
When it ended, I cried for us,
For the love we built on fragile trust.
The dreams we shared, the moments few,
I wept for all we couldn’t do.

I cried for late-night whispered vows,
For futures lost, for broken now.
For every kiss, for every laugh,
For what we had but couldn’t last.

You cried for you, your own despair,
For burdens that were hard to bear.
Your tears fell down, not for our we,
But for the things you couldn’t see.

Two rivers flowed but never met,
One full of hope, one of regret.
 May 22
Cheyenne Chenoa
When the dusk skies’ moon
Finds us creeping through the night
Might I take your hand
A gentle grasp with mine
And pray to our God above
That the moonlight won’t catch us in time
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