How come with all the brilliant thoroughbreds
That stand strong and ready at the starting gates
Those glorious, shiny coats gleaming in the sun
Do I keep on beating dead horses?
Instead of placing my bets on the alive and thriving?

Don't I want to finally engage in the race?
Don't I want to to keep my eyes on the winning prize?
For a dead and decaying horse,
With flies swarming about its lifeless carcass
Just ain't gonna move

Dead horse beating is a ludicrous hobby
It is more futile than leading a thirsty horse to water that just won't drink
That whip, in hand, just needs to be surrendered, put down on the ground
As well as finally releasing, letting go, on the pulling of those reins
So that horse can finally have a proper burial

Be finally laid to rest

In my dictionary
Dead horse (a noun) = people, places, or things of decay that should be out of your life
Dead horse beating (a verb) = from your thoughts to your actions, trying to revive a lost cause
Dead horse (synonoms) =  bad relationships/friendships/acquaintances {that are of the morgue}

Anything that is counterproductive to your life

Accept me as I am

But
      Please
                 Please
                            Please

Don't give up on me to be more

Forget about how Hollywood defines it
Don't let a commercial insist what product creates it
You cannot purchase your sense of worth

Cosmetic surgery,
I've contemplated it myself
But who is to say exactly what perfect features are?  

Don't feel defeated because you think you'll never compare
Don't feel like you have been given less than others
For you are who you are

Nobody owns the true book on beauty
It comes in various editions
And shines greatest from within

The world needs justice
But without mercy
It would be a tyrant

The world needs truth
But without grace
It would be a know-it-all

The world needs love
But without any tough love
It can lose its definition

The world needs humility
For there's too many of us
Who think the world revolves around us

What else does the world need?
I'd like to have all the answers
But I surely am in need, too

The list is too long
To create in the poem
And the needs, never ending

Karma?
I don't adhere to it
But I do believe
We reap what we sow

One cannot expect to have peace
When one has sown nothing but discord
Anymore than one can expect a golden crop of corn
When the planter has actually sown beans

And roots of bitterness will sure grow deep and destructive
When not thoroughly torn out of the ground
For a thriving garden must be rid of invading seedlings 
Of anything that does not foster, but fights its growth

To reap an abundant harvest
Sometimes, it is starting all over from scratch
For we've all been guilty of poor gardening
Have failed as farmers to one degree or another

You wanted succulent peaches
But you got shriveled prunes
You wanted wheat
But you got weeds

To produce a healthy garden
The fruit of forgiveness must grow as freely
As wildflowers in a field
Row upon row of compassion and love

An orchard of plenty for the desperate in need
Is the most rewarding harvest to reap
It will quench the terrible thirst
And satisfy the yearning soul

Looking upon Lake St. Clair
I saw it lying there today
In its watery grave
A large and lovely monarch butterfly
Its gossamer wings outstetched
As if it had gallently fought its death

And was determined to fly
Ascend to the air
To its temporary abode
Inbetween earth and sky
As far as its wings would take it
But it sadly did not succeed

On the one side, it was facing the lake
On the flipside, the open sky
I almost couldn't recognize it
As if it was a piece of junk floating along
But I eventually saw it cleary
This exquisite creature of noble name

And now I say that
Even this winged, airborne creature
Is bound to this earth
Like the rest of us
Who have not the gift of wings

And death is not just for suckers
The unfortunate who cannot hack it
For gravity must triumph in the end
And there is never a day
In which there ceases to be any death
Upon this mortal world

Many of us want to ward off its coming
As we bide our time
And try to outrun the inevitable
Hoping to outsmart the clock
Yet we are all creatures of this earth
Just as was this beautiful butterfly
Born to inhabitant this world
But never designed to stay

This isn't poetic license
In order to construct a clever poem
It truly happened to me
Making me stop and think
Out from a day in the ordinary
To ponder upon the brevity of life
With the instant reminder that

All magnificent things must die

Sired by the Pen
When its Ink flowed out
The Paper contained it well
Bringing the Words to life
And it grew tall and strong

For it was a good conception