How nimbly I stick my fingers
into the mouth of monsters,
those beasts with all the fury
and sound of playground dictators,
whilst sugar coating sour truths
and feeding them to those
I am aiming to argue into
the enlightened states of freedom.

If you if need your religion
to be kind to those who are different
than I can accept
what I normally reject,
but if you make the decision
to use that position
to treat others with derision
then you can take your faith
and put it in a dark **** place.

It's inherent
that we inherit
what's apparent
from our parents.

Time from before the big bang
has not been seen or measured
in any significant way
that I am aware of.

So, I am wondering,
based on converging hypotheses
did all of this matter and energy
from our universe which appears to be
expanding and is projected to do so eternally
due to dark matter, come from a less compressed state of being,
space that had massive materials swallowed by a black hole
and became the clay and the mold
of our soon to explode
reality.

It’s a trade in
as wage men
are trading
their time
and health
to earn themselves
a reprieve
from being
deprived
of what they need
to stay alive.

But the clock
is boiling them,
slowly cooking
working men
in a stew of
exhaustion.

Good health
and happiness,
is exchanged for
lots of stress,
anxiousness,
and a mess
of repetitive
movement
impairment
paired with
pain.

Body withering
along with
a dithering
mind that
subtracts facts daily.

In aging
the dark corridor
comes closer
and the coroner
is waiting
just outside
the late night
shift life
door.

Ignorance
is a sharp stark
spear to my
blood gorged heart,
the mess where I store
all the artifacts
I abhor and adore.

It is a corner covered in
all the tools used
for bludgeoning
all of my resistance
to a pulpy gore.

A set of stupid statues
sitting in a row
not seeing, hearing,
or speaking what we know.

The bane of my breath,
more horrid than death,
as I dull then destroy
that aspect which annoys
me greatly.

As I read and study,
veils remove themselves,
waters recede and I see
the once drowning
clown version of me
empowered to be
a lot godlier.

I am awed by
the forest green
glowing sheen
of spring’s clean
reflecting force,
as I am defecting
before the door
slams shut
on my creative luck.

I can overdo it,
get convoluted
till my rhymes
become diluted,
and my thoughts
become polluted
with alien intentions.

Swearing I am
too sophisticated
for those who
are frustrated
when they read me,
but they can
see through
the tricky ****
I try to do.

If it is
a zero-sum game
then I lose,
when I choose
to slowdown
and work through
the background noises
everyone else
forget to listen to.

In fact, I
overestimate,
exaggerate,
to inflate a debate,
that does not
exist in this place,
to try and say
something worth
expressing in
a beautiful verse.

But I am just
playing with words,
and they do not
love or need me,
nor does my
poetry or
my society,
both will survive
without me.