I wrote these words before,
but the broad brush is poisonous,
steals the joys from all of us.
That wonder in the face of the unknown.
Instead, of facing strangers
who are dangerous to our stereotypes,
we hide behind the night
of ignorance and blatant lies.

The broad brush is poisonous
cuz you're not using it to paint masterpieces,
or to see underlying complexities.
You’re just glossing over that beautiful diversity,
while stultifying, and simplifying
others to binary identities
based on gender and race,
so you don't have to face uncertainty,
in a very uncertain time and place.

I'm an outlaw
that's been living
with the doubts,
I've been given.

See me persisting, insisting
in my right to be existing.

I'm quizzical right now.
Though, I know this is a particular predicament,
this weird temperament probably isn't permanent.

Still, I am fixated on how my mind has mutated.
How this larva like version me has pupated,
preparing to be updated from my previous caterpillar state.
How I refuse to let my butterfly mind
be mutilated by those who have hated
every ounce of human empathy
I have seeded as an artist seeking a harvest
of love and compassion that needs reaping.

Hollow is the hallway
where our friends
used to laugh and play.
They are specters now
of some long dead
imagined game.

Empty eye sockets,
cartilage,
broken bones
amidst this
creeping chaos
where the
death wish
has dismissed
so many
lonely kids.

How many
empty spaces
can you fill
with the losses
no one is willing
to reveal
because they
are still
looking for
missing heartbeats.

These tragedies
mark me
from a reader’s
distance.
I am able to
observes these
sorrowful instances
and transcribe
distorted paintings
of truthful lies.

Whilst wondering
who am I,
and why do I try?

They say an elephant never forgets,
but an eloquent man
is bound to regret
all the things that he
hasn’t done or seen yet.

He is not a pachyderm
standing firm
as he packs up
all the junk in his trunk
that he has earned.

There will be
a lot of baggage
that he doesn’t need
when he leaves,
so perhaps
he should step back
and drop those
old gray bags.

They are barely peanuts.
Anyways,
traveling light would be
preferable
because his past
though quite durable
is as heavy as
that massive land mammal.

Making art is
probably the hardest
thing I'll ever have to do,
in telling the truth to you
as I watch you keep doing
the horrible things you want to do.

Making rhythm with my own flow,
struggling to try and grow with it
may not be the best and I know it,
but I'm doing what I'm capable of.

I’m struggling in a state of love,
trying to live up to a dream of
saving people with my empathetic artistic endeavors.

I’m being clever with the words I use,
cause I want to be the fertilizer
that inspires seeds with my solar word fire,
in my desire to make this world a better place.

There's no way to slow
this flow when it's going,
cuz it's constantly growing
and it won't be eroding.

The time is now for showing
the glamorous glowing
hearts made for creating great
art works of wise words,

but all those worthless rodents
who pose pointless questions
while making us look in
the wrong direction,
all those ******* politician
taking donations
from those multinational corporations
and other greedy businessmen,

have greatly impacted
the lives of loved ones
whose passions and potential
have been permanently subtracted;

Once warms bodies
become negative spaces
as memories are frayed
by the pain of those
who were betrayed,
those who were played
by the slimy
grimy whining
opportunist
who used this
tragedy to make
more money
and take more power.

During church I would
not be able to
pay attention to
even the briefest speeches
that seeks to breach
the souls
that old bold preacher
was trying to reach.

Instead, I played in my head.
Weird fantasies
where I have seen salty seas,
waves gently sweeping
small bits of wooden debris
away as small *****
crawled and creeped.

Eyes closed, imaging those
other places while familiar faces
gathered around, I would fall asleep
as the melody of my imagined scene
eased me from consciousness to
another state of strange dreams.

Until the pastor pounded the pulpit,
raising his passionate voice,
making my elbows slip.
Till my head dipped
and hit the front bit
of the pew before me.

The sermon was so boring,
but it was a prelude
of such magnitude
that it overshadows
the point I am trying to
get you to listen to.

So, tired that as I
write this for you to view,
I long to lie down
and get back to
my church pew
and old daydreams.