I'm well aware of your existence, orange-skinned fitness aliens.
You mask yourselves with the power of cosmetic force.
Tanning beds are your temples and Snooki is your Goddess.
Say goodbye to your ******* self of natural beauty. For you now have a shiny, new, orange-colored meat-coat that people can admire and laugh at you about. Congratulations, the Sun is now useless in your eyes.
Welcome, UV-A exposure. Goodbye, UV-B exposure. They never bothered to know you and for that, the Sun is jealous of your own insecurity. While chemicals are seeping into the very core of your being, others can't wait to hop onto your fashion train and bed of self-proclaimed beauty. Bravo! I'd give you a pat on the back, but you might scream and my hand might start glowing orange. Others are a nice white, bronze, brown, black, red, but not you. You're on a whole other level of society. Maybe you are an Oompa Loompa created by ***** Wonka.
I think you have separated yourself from the rest of humanity and created your own race of beings. If that's so, than this poem has made me out to be a "racist" *******, but alas, I must digress.
Hey now, the Metro Fitness competition is calling your name. You orange people, go forth, with your brawn and beauty. Your bulging triceps and rippling deltoids have sprayed sardonic smiles onto our faces, much like some of your spray-on tans.
Some of our hearts may be touched, but your pride is intangible.

Journey across the shattered glass, once the window of a soul entrapment.
Clear, blue skies, twice clouded past; face downward towards the sun-swept pavement.
Carry on, but not too fast, amidst the scars of enslavement.
Let go of shadow's mask, light will cast upon heart's encampment.
Truth be told, quite the task, sets the scene of love's enchantment.
A bitter one, yet better three; heart, mind, and spirit free.

Hey Grandma, take my hand and let's go for a walk. I have dreaded the day would come where we could no longer talk of childhood mischief and such; running amok. Much love for the bird who has now left her flock. Time has run out for you on the face of my clock. Dear Grandma, remember when we played Bingo and word games all day. We sat sipping cocoa and watched Thanksgiving Day parades. If you were here, you would see I stand blinded with reflections of you made in the passing of tears on my face.Long after the years of days that I played outside in the rain. No Grandma, these memories will never fade away. I'll miss your loving embrace. Yes Grandma, I'll always strive to be better. That guy who is brave and a real go-getter. Lately, I've felt a little under the weather. The mind is cold, foggy, and not so clever.
A bit logic-impaired, but the bond that we shared will never be severed. After all, we're just birds of a feather. Beloved Grandma, with this poem I'll plant with a kiss. For without you I would surely not even exist. You'll watch over my heart and always be missed. If you see Grandpa, tell him you both will forever be remembered.

I plead insanity. Insane thoughts from a corrupted society are building blocks to thousands of towers of anxiety. Their looming, toxic shadows spewing a deathly breath of pollution across the blue sky of air that we breathe. The pesticide to our seed.

All for the money we bleed, over piles of broken hearts, and shattered hopes and oily seas.

This poem may seem like just some huge hyperbole, to some half-wit ****, that thinks more money is the answer to our pleas. I hear wings of freedom span the horizon, and emblazoned with the love and dreams of freed humanity.

Will we ever hear the Phoenix's call?

Will our swelling pain ever be dulled?

Tears of sorrow rain down to the grasping hands of our flawed system.

Ego-centric maniacs crushing our noble opposition.

With open minds, souls, and hearts, love is our ammunition.

These words may seem worthless to the blind.

Flying past the gaze from your eyes.

Weary sighs from the fright. This light shines bright and I'll add a final free thought to inspire, the admiration to inquire a surge of motivation to bring ourselves even higher.

This poem unfortunately, now retires.

This synchronicity is fantastic. Simplistic meanings of a mystical, spiritual force swarming around in your mind, quite spontaneously and spastic. I'm not one for only logistics.

Sickly drawn to only scientific facts, while you are spiritually void of anything greater, than your materialistic, non-classical fashions and plastics.

Ticking away your time-clock of tomorrow, drastic changes are being made to suit your every all-knowing, systematic antics.
Shamanistic views are destroying egotistical spews.
This sticky poem may sound gnostical, but I hope it sticks to you.

Fading in and out of existence, where there is a whisper from a mistress in fish nets tempting your every interest of sanity.
Vanity lies hidden and derived from the canopy of clouded judgements.
This next sentence will bring sentiments to your every American citizen.
Brighter horizons lie ahead, much closer than your bedspread.
Sweat is dripping and ripping holes in the red stains in your wood shed.
Bled out from paint cans raining down from rotting shafts, holes in the collapsing rooftop spawns forth some terrible draft.
Crafted from the laughter of liars, shrill shouts from loud buyers, a disastrous blast of forces destroying your every desire.
Tragic floods, sweeping fires, and splitting earthquakes that destroys what you and I admire.
Worn out and expired, the flame of something higher flickers off, like a light-switch.
Goodnight.

Tripping....
Dripping water....
Shipping daughters across seas to different fathers....
Flipping dollars into gardens of scholars.....
Gripping flowers in full bloom...
Clipping hair under full moon in summer....
Sipping milk and honey from the stream of life that's dying.....******...