They walked into the crowded room;
Spotlight hot; it made them sweat,
The crowd was cautious, curious,
Yet they had no regret.
For they were open, honest,
Wore their feelings on their sleeve,
And while the world was watching,
Professed what they believe.

We are equal. We are worthy,
Of your tolerance and love,
There is but One should judge us,
They are in Heaven, up above.
Should a God that loves us equally,
Be considered gender queer?
Can future generations
Be rid of prejudice and fear?

We only ask you give us,
A chance, an equal shot.
You will find that we will give you
Everything we’ve got.
We will make a difference in this world,
We will find our place among the rest
Some strive for mediocrity,
We will strive to be the best!
Phil Lindsey 1/9/17

"How do you know it's the end?"
She asks me through her tears.
It draws me back into the darkness,
Where I was faced blindly with my fears.
The scratching of heads;
The whimpers of voices;
The constant inconvenience;
And hobston's choices.

What kept me in that consistent loop?
Was it really comfort?
And what made me oblivious to your warped mind,
That did not value me or my effort?
The hatred, oh it's real!
But my heart somehow still broke.
You took with you more than our lifetime,
When you opened your mouth and spoke.

A new path was constructed.
And our moments slipped away.
Your absence became less obvious,
With the passing of every day.
But within me, past all my minds thoughts,
There is a feeling hidden deep down inside.
It dents my negativity and forgives all my regrets,
And it's the single reason I cried.

Because inside you, I seen potential,
For you to be loving, kind and true.
A man who could put others before himself,
My life partner, who would help me through.
And the darkness created that image.
Without light, I was blind.
I could not see your true colours,
Or the mask you hid behind.

Sometimes you allowed the light in,
And your beauty was something real.
You were more than that potential man,
And no hatred did I feel.

We had a future, though you did not believe it.
But that faded away with you.
I think it was all just for the better,
As your last words were the most true.

And now I'm standing before my reflection,
Asking myself how you know it's the end, for real?
And the answer is simple when you look at your surrounding,
Only to find, silence is all you really feel..

Like embers
Falling silently
Into the sea,
So are you and me.
They don't
Belong together,
But despite
The tragic end,
They collide
So beautifully.

it was so
easy
to love you
the way you
were..

the way we
were..

just..
a breath
away
from heaven

when our eyes
were
closed
hell was no where
to be found

*and yet
we fell
anyway

The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.

Four years ago was Mom's last Thanksgiving.
Just one year later, she was no longer living.
I wasn't as thankful for her as I should've been.
Back in 2012, I didn't know that she'd never be celebrating Thanksgiving again.
Four years ago was the last Thanksgiving that Mom celebrated.
Be thankful for your parents because they should be appreciated.