Humans programmed to swim in a dry dam. working towards the future ; what they do not know about or even understand. they tell us who we're going to be while we don't even know ourselves.

We can't control time but we can manage it. we are a united nation departed by : the systems of this world

The real criminals are people in suits and ties , living on a given image. not those in tattoos.

If we did things in our own perception and not in a authority perception
The world would be a better place

We give ourselves a limited amount of freedom while we should live free all the time. even God wants us to be free but the world has become a place where people cage themselves in possessions  
Possessions are only for a session
Then they perish

Wisdom is peace , wisdom is better than silver and Gold

Learn about self-worth and be free

i see beauty in the terrible &
i see perfect harmony in ugliness
shock pain destruction ruin,
the truth: the above is more whole and juicy between the teeth
than years of singing sparrows

& i see the perverted beauty in damage
- wreckage & shrapnel -
broken cracked stained objects
have their own crooked appeal

i lust for bruises, broken hearts, broken bones, addicted tongues
for the red eyes born of insomnia, sorrow, substance abuse
i want the literal & metaphorical dirt under your fingernails  
there's a sick sweetness in awful secrets
but factory fresh is bland & tasteless

Is this what it's like to be a poet?
To taste every goodbye, to feel every moment?
To feel every detail, to see every flaw?
To kiss every star as the night starts to fall
To fall in love with the way the sunsets
To dream of the birds from dusk to dawn

Is this what it's like to be a painter?
To find it captivating the way the earth moves
Mesmerized by your very own torment
Never caring if anyone else approves
Ingenious, stamped across your forehead

Is this what it's like to be an artist?
To find beauty in the pain that transcends
From the demonized garden growing within?
To find something alluring in the way
*People walk away

Shriveled & shrunken.
Intoxicated & drunken.
Hung over & agitated.
Mild to moderate brain activity.
Common sense & basic reason lacks mental ability.
Bad with money & squanders financial stability.

Passing a psychological mental health evaluation not quite.
Kept in a straight jacket & sedated in isolation they do spit & bite.
They go through everyone's trash day & night.
They panhandle at the street lights.
They have tempers & pick fights.
Nothing they do is legal or right.

Slobs with no jobs.
They lack work ethics.
The sight & stench of them is sick.
They're sad story is lies & tricks.
Not a truth that sticks.

They cuss & their pocked face oozes ****.
Their frontal lobe is filled with dust.
About telling your teacher the truth they get homicidal & make a fuss.
They drive a ******* car consisting of smog & rust.
Getting arrested for 365 × 3 + 2 counts of child **** is never a bust.

Keep your children away from drunks.
Some drunks get violent, beat you & lock you on a trunk.
Most pedofiles & rapists are drinkers.
Not religious or moral thinkers.
With shingles, hpv virus, ****** & boyles.
Zero morals as hideous as an ugly *** gargoyle.

Enjoy arguing,  screams & shouts.
Daily drunk driving & behind the wheel blackouts.

a dream—
of landscape scorched,
its reflection my
soul.
the place one oft ventured
wandered—lost,
alone.

thunder,
lightning in the distance, the
rumblings of a
turbulent mind.

the ash of failed dreams
drifting
through the air,
strike as rain breaking silence—
a nagging reminder of effort’s shame.

angst, regret, fear
despair
a place damaged,
not yet under repair.

a flower
shocking contrast amidst mire.
perfect white petals perched on the
stem of a pen.
“My name is poetry.”
the instrument spoke,
“and you—are my purpose.”

I never whittled wicker fiddles
while riddles belittle the middle
class of ***** and elephants.
Irrelevant asides alike another
mother smothered by her brother’s
last lover and uncovered this summer’s
eve. ****** – the reason seasons start
aren’t propelled by a spell in my heart.

the spell in my heart you ask?
its a dry spell for sure,
it crackles with the flames of fire
that whip out like the whips
of elephant trainers,
the way they scare me in place,
and i shake with terror.
but terror arises and smothers
the way mothers have been smothered
by a brother's last lover,
and summer eve will still come.

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...