Hollow is the hallway
where our friends
used to laugh and play.
They are specters now
of some long dead
imagined game.

Empty eye sockets,
cartilage,
broken bones
amidst this
creeping chaos
where the
death wish
has dismissed
so many
lonely kids.

How many
empty spaces
can you fill
with the losses
no one is willing
to reveal
because they
are still
looking for
missing heartbeats.

These tragedies
mark me
from a reader’s
distance.
I am able to
observes these
sorrowful instances
and transcribe
distorted paintings
of truthful lies.

Whilst wondering
who am I,
and why do I try?

Making art is
probably the hardest
thing I'll ever have to do,
in telling the truth to you
as I watch you keep doing
the horrible things you want to do.

Making rhythm with my own flow,
struggling to try and grow with it
may not be the best and I know it,
but I'm doing what I'm capable of.

I’m struggling in a state of love,
trying to live up to a dream of
saving people with my empathetic artistic endeavors.

I’m being clever with the words I use,
cause I want to be the fertilizer
that inspires seeds with my solar word fire,
in my desire to make this world a better place.

There's no way to slow
this flow when it's going,
cuz it's constantly growing
and it won't be eroding.

The time is now for showing
the glamorous glowing
hearts made for creating great
art works of wise words,

but all those worthless rodents
who pose pointless questions
while making us look in
the wrong direction,
all those ******* politician
taking donations
from those multinational corporations
and other greedy businessmen,

have greatly impacted
the lives of loved ones
whose passions and potential
have been permanently subtracted;

Once warms bodies
become negative spaces
as memories are frayed
by the pain of those
who were betrayed,
those who were played
by the slimy
grimy whining
opportunist
who used this
tragedy to make
more money
and take more power.

I don't need any emotion regulator.
I am the poetic pain appropriator
reading stories and saving
the suffering for later
to share with my fellow agitators
and other hopeful aspiring humans.

Never was a life
hit so hard
in my back yard
as when I saw
that broken heart.

Until, it was.

Never was a sorrow
felt so deep
that one could not keep
the pain they see
away.

Except for yesterday,
and all those days
that made their way
to become the one
that we call today.

Never was
a lie so bold
than the one
that we told
ourselves
forgetting the past
and all previous pains.

Never will be a joy so great
that we will be able
to overcome the shame
of all the mistakes
we made
by making
strange assumptions,
by disregarding
one another.

Never was a greater tragedy
than not being able to learn
from the suffering
of other human beings.

It should be a rarity,
this wicked wealth disparity,
but look at these crooks,
these modern-day land barons
coming in with their horns blaring,
not caring about the poor despairing
population they're supposed to be serving.

Instead, we got politicians earning
lots of profits
while the impoverished suffer from
the loss of options.

Space it out
when faced doubt
do a turnabout
don't double down
listen to the sound
of decent people
pleading with the seething
haters who are marching.

We are needing the seeding
of kind hearts succeeding,
because what was proceeding
was an inhumane beating
and defeating of compassion.

I’m so tired of the cruel violence,
of people talking smack and trashing
kind acts of passionate benevolence.

It is not a small favor that I’m asking,
as I speak from my perch of privilege.
I’m not coming from a place of ignorance,
and I hope I’m not being too **** arrogant.

On a bad day I do not believe
that we can be better than
the basest and most reprehensible,
that humanity is indefensible,
indivisible from our worst ways.

But when I write it out
thinking about the lines
that we have crossed,
the blessings received,
and what they cost,
I want to remind you
before the beauty of
what we can be is lost.

How diligently do you
deepen discourses
on philosophical,
social, and political
truths?

What is debatable,
palatable,
until it is unsayable,
cuz the unstable
will make horrible things
capable of happening.

A carnival of
constant rotations
declines and elevations,
disturbing mental visitations
paired with terrible hesitation.

The fetishization,
and circulation
of cultural appropriation,
hastened by caucasians
lack of emotional relations
to different groups
and their enforced stations
in our society.

How do we address
the inequality
when so many resist
the notion that it even exists?

So, the systems persists,
as I bang my head
against collectively created
mental bricks.

This poem is a study of sturdy storytelling.
Conflicts don't have to be complicated.
We don't need any super or normal villains.

I may not have the ability to be commercially
as successful as those other persons I see
who are spitting sick **** provocatively.

I may not be technically terrific.
Each line may not be perfectly specific,
but I can take new experiences and refashion them,
take enemies passion’s and make them friends again.

Till we all give in to the compassionate whims
that do what we need artistry to achieve,
cause we need other artists to believe
we can be better than what we currently see.

How inappropriate,
she’s my ******,
cute and flexible
barely detectable,
definitely delectable.

She’s a wonderful,
super comfortable,
good dancer,
a little dangerous,
perfectly fit,
and slightly psychotic.

I’m a caterpillar
and she is
a caterpillar killer.

She is fascinating,
and good at debating.

What a dream
a tragedy
that she is
imaginary,
make believe
at least for me.

In reality she
is dating
the kind of guy
I have spent
my lifetime hating,
confident bad boy
without the brains to
back up that smack talk.

Chalk it up to
a society that
doesn’t value
the truth
but prefers
*******.

I am already one among many,
a stranded stranger in this city,
but despite my plight they still
try to steal my identity,
try to change my name,
leaving me out to dry as I
am barely hanging from the windowsill.

There is no place for a poet who
rebels against those that want to
make him into another reflection
of this destructive urban infection.

I would run with the wolves
but the only wildlife we got here
are the wall street predators
and the other beasts who drink
up the destruction and misery
of the lost souls creeping on
cold hard and hungry city streets.

The roads are slick, and I could easily
find myself slipping, and falling,
succumbing to the dark and beastly
urges that want to consume me,
as my empathy is drained and changed
into a deranged competitive side.

It would be better to become
the moon that loves the sun,
or the ever-changing stream
that runs through my dreams.

The forest calls with all of her
grand green beauty and wonder.
The stillness and quietest
place that supplies this
momentary escape and inspiration.

White petals floating in the wind,
dirt brown paths that go down
to the lake and then
back around to a field of corn.

but I seldom return to that safe place,
just muddle through a sick polluted storm,
brain dead instead of wearing a smiling face,
I start to blend into the crowd that is moving.

Tightly packed automatons,
memory fails and now the poet is gone.

The city devours the last brilliant hours,
and the poems no longer finds a pen,
and the phoenix no longer rises again.
The sleeper no longer dreams.
He just keeps walking and walking.

A stranded stranger still talking,
but not saying anything.