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You always know how to ruin me
With charm so cheap,it should come with change
Every touch, a practiced accident
Every word dipped in recycled rage

You whisper lies in the language of moans
God,you are talented,do they teach that in ego school?
And I applauding of course
Because who doesn't love a well-rehersed fool.
I have all this love
And nowhere to put it
It's rotting inside me
Soft,warm
Unspent.

I reach out in dreams
But wake up alone
His name buried in my throat
Like a secret
I was not allowed to say.

He didn't stay
But the love did
And now it grows wild
Inside a heart
With no one left
To give it to.
Is debate no longer taught in school?
That would explain a thing or two.

Having your own opinion is crucial,
but understanding someone else's is too.

Devils Advocate is always my favorite position to play.

That doesn't mean I'm looking to change my mind
just means I want to understand the other side.

To start a discourse, to find common ground,
to allow dialog to flow with no anger found.
Conversations without hatred and name calling maybe that's asking to much but it seems like a good place to start! there is a movie called The Great Debaters that I  think everyone would benefit from watching.
The one I watched starred Denzel Washington but I think this was a remake of a movie made in the sixties.
As I rotate without and within
When I’ve died I’ll be born yet again
I’ve come and I’ve gone
Like the dusk and the dawn
Can a cycle be said to begin?
There’s an illness from history’s pages
Which can even afflict the courageous
Beware of the syndrome
When visiting Stockholm
I’m told that it’s mildly contagious

There's a tome in the royal collection
Behind triple-pane glass for protection
If the legend is right
It was penned overnight
By a monk under Satan's direction
Just a couple of lightweight limericks inspired by some low-intensity sightseeing in Stockholm, Sweden, specifically the Nobis Hotel and the Codex Gigas aka the Devil's Bible.
A bullet fired.
Blood spurted.
A man fell.
I cannot tell;
I never saw.
No tears I shed.
Is it a war?

Don’t care.
No condolence
to share.
Reap what you sow,
cater to  below--
sow the wind.

Forgot about it.
Another death, another day.
Not much to say
about this hell called Earth.
How many thousands died today?

Then..

Clicked on the video.
Saw my friend talking
to the dead guy.
He listened; she talked.

I saw flesh and blood.
Two humans.
A normal conversation.
They even agreed.
They were real.

Now we reap the whirlwind.
The conversation is over.
Not much of a poem, but a true story. A friend of mine posted 15 minutes of a conversation she had with Charlie Kirk on tv, from a year or two ago, I think.

In the style of  B.L Costello I think...
I have a pet dog; his name’s Wiley.
He doesn’t bark. I don’t fear his bite.
He walks behind me silently
and howls with his pack in the night.

I’ve got a cat named Rufus–
though we call him Bob.
He pads stealthily; he makes no sound.
His pointy ears and fluffy tail are all I see
in the deep grass.
The rabbits fear when he's around.

I’ve got a bird named Hawk.
I watch him soar in the distant sky.
Red and gold feathers bend  the air
perfectly, making me wish
I could fly.

I’ve got a rabbit named Jack.
He eyes me suspiciously
from the lawn. And hops desultorily.
Then he’s gone.
So-called "animal lovers" are often just looking for something to control, an emotional slave.
 Aug 31 ConnectHook
badwords
Stained are teeth, and fingers yellow,
Softly whispered lies we keep.
Smoke unfurls in breath so mellow,
Promising but sinking deep.

Coiling tendrils, soft and clever,
Lull the mind in fleeting grace.
Cinder ghosts that warm, yet sever,
Leave their embers on the face.

Every spark—a pledge unwinding,
Every drag—a weight we bear.
Sworn to comfort, yet confining,
Clinging to a thinning air.
Nicotine is a tightly structured, lyrical poem that explores the tension between fleeting comforts and the greater aspirations we often neglect. Using nicotine as both a literal and metaphorical device, the poem examines the small indulgences we cling to—despite knowing their cost—drawing a parallel to the broader human tendency to accept self-deception for the sake of temporary relief.

Through vivid imagery of smoke, stained fingers, and fading embers, the poem evokes a sense of quiet resignation, underscoring the slow erosion of will beneath a comforting but insidious habit. The rhythmic AB meter reinforces the hypnotic cycle of desire and consequence, mirroring the way these comforts lull us into complacency.

At its core, Nicotine is a confrontation—a mirror held up to our daily rationalizations, asking whether we truly seek change or merely the illusion of control. The introspective tone invites readers to reflect on their own vices, however small, and consider what they may be sacrificing in the name of fleeting ease.
"What is truth?" old Pontius said;
Washing his hands, the Truth he fled.
"Had I been there, the Truth I'd bear,"
Some proudly claim with foolish air.
Yet Truth still holds old Pont to blame,
And you and I must share his shame.
Disciples fled; they hid in fear;
Peter lied, and he was there.
Why would I think that I'd be brave,
Though sometimes pious, still a slave?
The weakest ones find strength if we
Kneel low to Truth on humbled knee.
(12-7-21)
Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.

Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.
Wrote this in 2017
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