I once held
high ideals.

Hoping that I
would not sit
idly by
while others tried
to use and abuse
the disenfranchised.

Hoping that I
could use my creativity
to wake and relate all people
to their dormant humanity.

Hoping that I
would not turn
a blind eye
to a person in pain,
or a person being shamed
for that which
they have no power
to change.

Hoping that I
would never act unkind,
betraying those things
I held dear to my being,
such grand moral standards.

I failed and still do,
in favor of self-comforting,
in accepting the view
that nothing I do
matters.

I failed faltering
in moments of weakness,
and sadly I
still fail to rise
to the levels
I wished to reach
and fly.

When walls become your imprisonment,
A no win scenario with a raging sickness,
You miss your camera capturing snapshots of life passing by.

You are one in a collective of people, holding each other metaphysically to barricade the vulnerable, this is more than just you.

You pace, you pass time, and you precise your ideas of freedom,
You may even do a painting or two,
A Tik Tok while the clock ticks.

Reflections of your most inner turmoil surface,
Pressures of life continuing with you boxed and it builds
Deadlines
Deaths
Destability

When you just can't take it any more,
You bash against the door, striving for that one touch, one feeling of hope you will break free of the airborn seel

The door opens

One

Point

Five
is  sprayed on your steps, and in your mind.

You would  do everything to chase the sunrise as it greets you again

Who dares enjoy your gold with you?
What good is it Midas? It's contaminated.
When will you, if ever, enjoy it again?
Where is your preferred seating now?
Why persist with your follies? Don't touch me.

When the son-in-law
(who should remain nameless)
Is a clone
Of the father-in-law,
(whom should also remain nameless),
The son-in-law
Lies in an incestuous bed,
And the father-in-law
Gets a vicarious jump
On the wing
(the west one)

I find my humanity
in stories,
in Japanese Anime
and cool manga,
where all those heroes
spring from things
that seem unbearable.

I find my humanity
in far flung fantasies,
of fictional realities
where characters strive to be
better than they were previously,
where they are constantly
working and growing like me.

I find my humanity
in flowing verses of poetry
that sweep stale cobwebs
from my sad cluttered head
and help me see things differently,
which is what my scifi perspectives
also offer me.

Even though, sorrow stains my
poetic flows,
bringing in
cynicism,
and anger towards my fellow men.
Even when people tend
toward hateful trends
of violence, sexism, racism,

somewhere in the art I love
lay similar hearts of
humane ambition,
of nuclear fission,
of dreamers on a mission,
and there my humanity
is frequently restored to me.

It’s the internet
and I hate it,
dealing daily with
raving lunatics.

On a regular basis
I see raging faces
of uniformed racist
ranting about baseless
accusations.

I thought I had the solution,
to the mass confusion
generated by
all those pasty old guys.

I was certain,
and I rationalized
that once they realized
that the fox news dudes
we’re feeding them lies,
they would come around
to my point of view.

What a sweet certain avenue
I followed you through
thinking reasoning was needed
and that it would change you who
truly believed in the hate that you seeded.

But now I admit I am defeated.
As far as I can see
some people are not open
to changing and growing.

No more tears left in me,
so back to my bubble I go,
where my people agree
and know what I know,
a safe space where I will stay,
cause while the world burns
I am certain to be squirreled away
with the rest of my disheartened,
dry eyed dying idealists.

There is a furnace
that burnt us,
turning smiles to dust
and kindness
to distrust.

A place where
suspicion
was sharpened
to the point of
cutting the hearts
that might
offer true love.

In that hell
some have seen
a shell
form around themselves
whilst others have internalized
the fires that fried their lives.

I have been there to
and turn those blazes toward
breaking swords
and building bridges
to places where we
can be a gentler breed
of humanity.

What makes us human,
is not easily defined?

What clutters this mess
we call conscious
is not something
I can measure well
with my mind?

What drives the feminine mystique
is a perilous penultimate peak
which I seek?

What moves us all
to walk or crawl
when life’s pain
is overriding
our common sense
when our existence
does not permit this
persistence?

What is the truth?

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.

Bloated buffoon
looks like an
orange painted baboon,
and this is me
writing as the moon
settles and sends streams
of deep blue
thoughts into my dreams.

I am not currently adding
a **** thing
to what we are discussing,
just venting in poetry.

But I watch the mad masses
follow him
into oblivion
believing
that what they are seeing
isn’t reality.

The king of no tact
and he just reacts
without a tac of facts
to point to,
and like him
they are reacting
without a lick of sense
to hold them back.

So, they stroll
with a straw-hat troll
who has no self-control
to a place from which
they will never come home.

I palm my face
in shame for my race
and all that I can offer is
another freaking useless
stanza of words
no one will heed
or even read.

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.

Welcome to the chamber
where I place all of my anger,
a place where you’ll find danger
if you try to hurt a stranger.

Welcome to the bathroom
that you see in the back room
where the **** rises high
and stinks up the night,
where the pigs own the sty
and the stench brings
tears to my eyes.

Welcome to the ending
of yesterday’s beginning.
Now, face the shadows blending
as prism prisons starts light’s bending,
where darkness does conform
to the wicked arts the corrupt perform,
but dragons still the rule the castles
that knightly fellows refuse to storm.

Welcome to my frustration.
It’s been brewing for a while
and all that boils in the pots
has stolen swollen smiles
and replaced happy faces
with clenched jaws
of undealt with rages.