'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing's surely
An understatement,
It drove so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But with hard rain that night
I was trudging uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

where ironically I had met two good people,
they like me got caught up in the desires
of too much too easily, turned white powder or green buds
into easy money, got ratted out by some bad dudes.

Time and space compressed into six by eight
and seconds so vast , made you question  god
sanity your preferences and friends. Made me dream of cigarettes.
Lit up then disappearing as I tried to take a puff.

forgot desires dreams tomorrow, it's the way
the condemned survive. Gave up the thoughts of revenge, tried to
stop the constant dread of closing eyes
seeing your two year old or wife crying.

made a way around the baddest cons, gotta face them
eye to eye or be their ***** forever, and the iron did not ever
take that from me. It stole my soul pride independence future
kids hope and religion, never made me ****, never could,
make me that.

I was told what to eat when to talk walk sit stand speak, yeah
like a dog, had my fill of thugs guards wardens parole boards
the rec room the basketball court the scene,
then came across two of the baddest dudes

quite like me who took their lumps, showed me how to
make great tacos out  of commissary crud, how to roll a
toilet paper cigarette , how to hide my shank and my pencils.

they told me of the dudes who caved in to the feds
and got off for turning them in. What they once had plans
to do to them. But got smart. So smart they became teachers preachers
jailhouse lawyers superfly calm and confident inside.

And I got out.
I had never fallen for the jailhouse Christian ****, the hail mary's said by the crack head murderers who thought JC might get them out. The child rapists, house invaders, lower than dogs, who promised, with
that emptiness of eye that they now were saved.******* weak hypocrites. ******* electric chair heros, crying I am sorry. Fry them.

It was Saturday night. They gave me a set of clothes and twenty bucks.
Pushed me out into the night, clutching a small piece of paper that held my two friends  names and jailhouse numbers on it. I had something.
I walked as far as fast as I could. No destination in mind, no course plotted, I walked up hill this time though. The hard way I had been taught.

I arrived at a fancy Cathedral in town at ten the next morning. Marveled at the well dressed people and fancy cars. Everything seemed
shining. Until I saw all the well- heeled turn around and gasp as
I sank wearily alone into the back pew.

I woke up with people washing my feet.
Now I gotta write Jimmy and Bubba in jail,
and profess, there is hope.
Tell them there is more than us three
good people on earth.

And I answered:
To see and touch all that I forgot,
To remember the delta where
Immense waters rushed to
My memory's melodic forms.
     To remember that ***** that
     Broke my heart,
     How I loved her,
     Look at all the poems
     I wrote for her!
To feel the livid wounds
Of everyone fester about
Like domesticated bipeds,
Watch them grow entangled
Beneath a shivering sun.
        To read the crazy beautiful
        Of other people's thoughts
        And get in their heads without
        Psychological babblings
        And manipulation.
To watch the shadowless sun
Create a phantom city
In the concrete swarms,
To stretch every sense
Into the living moment.
      To catch myself from splitting,
      Or perhaps to split from myself
      And call me crazy,
      Laugh it off and cry
      When I read it again.
To embody what I miss
With these fucken cell phones
And internet opinions
With elongated voices
Lonely, their kind of
Misery loves company after all.

      Why the poem?
      Ask yourself,
      What else is there??

When I'm with you
Time ticks so fast
Like a lightening bolt

When I'm not with you
Time slows down
Like a small snail

~    
        All the poems I write
     are just the beginning
                              and end
               of every thought
   I've ever had about you.

She was wild like skinny dipping at midnight, stars watching overhead and falling in love with moonlight. The way it lay upon her skin made the ocean envious of her depths within and sometimes between us. She was my sister, not in blood but in orbit. A Venus to my Earth, forged from the same collapsing star and if the universe was in fact to be infinite then this moment would happen again, and again, and again an immeasurable number of times. I found comfort in this thought, knowing though our existence was meaningless, it was still full of feeling, and this feeling, right now, it insisted on existing forever.

I'm here to tell you
That there is
Really nothing

On this planet
To get excited about

Friends are fun
Nature is beautiful

But it's kind of
One big empty place

And people say this
And that

And here comes
Another day

Am I doing okay?

I spent alot of time alone
And I write these poems

I'm on my own schedule
Head in the clouds

And now I'm watching
Old Bond movies

Why?
Not sure why

Questions are usually
Followed by more questions

I would like
To go to Tibet
But I'm so poor

So I'll spend
In the local mountains

I'm not looking
For a full time job

Part time
Suits me fine

And I'm not moving out
I'll be here
Until society collapses
Or the end of days

Or until I'm old
Whichever of those three
Comes first

Oh you know
Life is some type of joke

~~
Hidden truths proof the match
When the forms of moon seduced
Beautiful takes further inside
Catch the charms of the earth

Transforming the forms
Cracking in to another
Growing in to others
A form of meditation to move
The Sage to God,
Will be the poet of eternal span

Poems would be the forms of pictures
Be moved to the rhythm of
The waterfalls, rivers, seas-
Would be made of a ****** horizon
Thinking of man's divine desert

Where exists a timeless love,
An infinite light,
As if a celestial tension of stellar
Can take them away from
The center to endless

The known world,
The days whole games of yours and mine
Would be over
Could be broken down all days and nights
Off course be moved from the enchanted earth
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen