Will you feel me
and my lyrical poetry,
soft syllables
that speak easy
as the greasy
politicians fleece me?

Will you flee
to feel free
before you ever listen
to what I am giving?
Like all other
disappointing people
will you disappear
before you hear?

Cause I brought
my heart here.
It beats clearly,
thuds obsessively
begging people
to love me
because I am
so **** lonely.

Deception is the art of media, church, and state. It should not be the foundation of how human beings view and treat each other. That we are separate is a deceit. As humans we are all bound together, not in some magical web of destiny but as a human collective with a social responsibility to make this world a place of peace love and understanding; instead of a world driven by self-interest, and fear.

The red apple
reflects
the randomness
of this
wild world.

In hunger
the white
and seeded core
becomes
a fruity corpses
where when
disposed
will posses
the rot of worms
and wriggling maggots.

Then to the grave
this delicious treat goes
to seed the earth
with nutrients
that other things
need to grow.

These words perform
their sacred rites
and dance on tongues,
waking in working whispers,
passed on from one generation
to the next in line,
they shift in context
change in definition,
grow their influence,
and fall into exposition,
then fade into footnotes,
and finally become
part of a dead language.

I am alone
in observation,
a splendid
ascension
of sensations;

Textures,
tense fingers
find
tactile pleasures
smooth and cool
to rough and hot
from heated concrete
beneath my feet
to moist stems
and slippery grass
that barely allows
any traction at all.

A titan’s perception
my poetic obsession
with twirling words
in a myriad of ways;

Of tasting salty meats,
or soft sugary sweet treats,
of the quick dissolving
cotton candy
that clumps
then disintegrates
on the tip of my tongue,

or the blossoming pain
of a cracked tooth
and exposed nerve.

The blacktop
cracks,
and I observe
earth.
Till, my eyes
ascend to heaven’s height
and I perceive the slight
blinking lights
championed by
a bright beautiful moon.

The wind bends the tall brown stalks
of some unknown plant that I
am unable to identify.

What demons
darken
her deep
brown eyes,
hastening the violence
that seeks to rise?
Are they truths
that hurt her
or lies
that move
to mollify
any turbulence
in her life
so that
any gifts
she harbors
inside
cannot thrive?
Is it conflict
she needs
to seed these
plentiful rows
of dazzling roses
with extraordinary
beauty,
or is it
tranquility?