I’m not ready to go,
but got lost in the flow.

I’ve estimated
I will be decimated
by the next disaster
humanity has created.

I’ve wasted time
trying to find
the truth behind
these divided minds,
whiles other have
just retroactively justified
their hate crimes.

It seems peace
is only a dream
that I find
when I let myself
go to sleep
along with
the rest of the
waking walking
sheep.

I'm tired, old, and worn out,
still sternly considering my doubts.
Getting ready to pass on a torch
that I haven't even earned
cuz I barely ever marched for
the lessons that we’ve learned.

Now, I write not to delight
but for new insights,
to question why
and ask my friends again,

“Who taught you to hate,
to sit and separate
yourself from the sacred state
of that which elevates?”

I wrote these words before,
but the broad brush is poisonous,
steals the joys from all of us.
That wonder in the face of the unknown.
Instead, of facing strangers
who are dangerous to our stereotypes,
we hide behind the night
of ignorance and blatant lies.

The broad brush is poisonous
cuz you're not using it to paint masterpieces,
or to see underlying complexities.
You’re just glossing over that beautiful diversity,
while stultifying, and simplifying
others to binary identities
based on gender and race,
so you don't have to face uncertainty,
in a very uncertain time and place.

I'm an outlaw
that's been living
with the doubts,
I've been given.

See me persisting, insisting
in my right to be existing.

I'm quizzical right now.
Though, I know this is a particular predicament,
this weird temperament probably isn't permanent.

Still, I am fixated on how my mind has mutated.
How this larva like version me has pupated,
preparing to be updated from my previous caterpillar state.
How I refuse to let my butterfly mind
be mutilated by those who have hated
every ounce of human empathy
I have seeded as an artist seeking a harvest
of love and compassion that needs reaping.

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.