It’s a sad song
When the soldiers come
With their loaded guns
And finger held firmly
on the trigger

The tears won’t stop running
For the victims that keep falling
On the battle ground

And the enemy
Well they are just siblings
From another father and mother

The yards are empty.
only dirt and other detritus
clutter the mid-morning landscape.

There are no children
outside laughing and playing
running red rover over
the black tops on Saturday morning.

There are no parents smiling,
leaning on the old siding,
while the funny false teeth
wearing grandfather
tells stories to the younglings
about the old days.

Silence is the norm.

The fish fries, family reunions,
fairs, carnivals, and circuses
no longer make this circuit.

The gas station, and grocer’s
are boarded up
leaving only a lonely trail of
house after house
sprouting weeds and vacancy signs.

It is for the loss of me
that my heart grieves.
As memories leave,
the memory tree
loses her leaves.

Inch by inch
The pathways disappear.
Dirt roads are lost.
Playgrounds are swallowed.
Each home crumbles.

Friends faces lose their solid edges.
Hugs lose their tenderness.
Family becomes unfamiliar.

Till, like the worse sculptor ever
Time chips away.
The marble becomes unrecognizable
And even the man in the mirror
Is a stranger.

No fault of her own
This heart that is known
Gives praise to her lips
Indulging the razor tipped
Poisonous barbed edges
Asking for more patience
And getting nothing for my troubles

Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.

The orange sun retreats
beautifully surrendering
to the clouds and night sky
that is pursuing him.

The last bits of lights
turns gray cirrus purple
signaling crickets
and crazy croaking frogs
that they are free
to sing with the birds.

Warm become a cool forty-six degrees.
While others ready for sleep,
I look forward to the ecstasy
of waiting in such fervent longing
for the sun to return.

Time is mercury,
silver liquid poison
to the living
taking more then
it is giving.

It is Hermes,
a deft thief,
burgling
what the Greeks
sought to keep,
putting fools
asleep eternally,
so that even Aphrodite
cannot recall
those loved ones lost
to its terrible march.

My problem is that I am driven. I have a certain level of willpower that most cannot honestly claim. However, many with this degree of will power become rigid. I am fluid, because directing much of the energy i have is a undeniable sense of empathy. This makes pursuing a world of materiel things highly detestable, because I know these things come at the cost of our humanity. So my pleasure comes from the consumption of art and knowledge. I am a strange **** that strangles the seeds, and softens the earth of your subdued minds. While you keep trying to grow straight like the rest am trying to bend you so you can see around OZ's curtains. Good luck,

I cannot give myself over to the apathy of uninformed disinterest or the deep self-sacrifice sacrifice of saints. So i slumber in this sea of pain connected to suffering of others while being detached from their distracted pleasures.

Was it because she wasn’t strong enough?
I was lucky she never broke any bones.
I was unlucky she never broke any bones.
The marks were never big enough.
My fear, pain, and anxiety was never obvious enough.
The tension in my body snapping and flinching
when anyone touched me was never clear enough.
I did not know that I was supposed to or had to
speak loud enough for you to hear me.
So, I lived brutalized, and terrorized;
Made fun of at school and beat at home.
The only respite I had was in my walking
to and from.
The only peace I had was sleeping
but I could not extend such freedom
into eternity, because death would not have me.

The dissonance
The pitiful pain
Of pittances
Peculiar piercings
Pecking beak
That breaks the skin
Bursting eyeballs
How the crow kas
Crossing the blood soaked
Battlefield
Books of rage
Etched so deeply in my soul
Compounded by the sorrows
Built upon our leaders’ greed
The clock ticks
Skin twitching
Perspiring
With neurons firing
Percussion beating out
More pain, more pain
More pain, more pain
To fan anger’s flame
The darkness encroaches
Then recedes
Building up like a constipated ****
Till wave after wave finally breaks through
And I **** blood and violence
Then guilt
Then sorrow
Then pain
And the ****** cycle
Begins again

Life does not promise happiness,
nor does existence guarantee dignity

But for the actions of few who sacrifice
Not battle born ****** bodies
But hearts open and bleeding
Seeding the carcass strewn landscape
With new and old ideas

Planting by praising with love

Weeding by damning that which
Diminishes love’s greatest achievements

Teaching that peace, love, and happiness
Are the only profits worth acquiring

Do we yield the products of this glorious field