They disregard
and then discard
the laborers
who are working hard,
but how long can a man
struggle before
he can't stand anymore.

When stress is razor wire
that cuts deeper than
any normal blade could.
When he wants to do good,
taking care of his family
like he knows he should.

He may have two jobs,
working dusk till dawn
with only a little break,
not getting enough sleep,
and barely getting enough to eat,

but the boss doesn't mind
killing his spirit
while murdering his time.

Till, the morning comes
when even if his earthly
works aren't done,
and he’ll be forced to leave all his
responsibilities to his son.

He'll pass on
all that debt
as he passes on
with the weight of regret
for all that he hasn't done yet.

It’s a race against the clock.
Hoping the computer
doesn’t stop,
or that I don’t get
mentally blocked
before the explorer
stutters
and my cpu
breaks down
before I can do
what I meant to.

Don’t get caught in her eyes
cause that is where
her mysteries lie,
where the tiger hides
are waiting to pounce,
and devour every ounce
of the essence you have,
to satisfy the beast that resides
in her ever-enduring hunger.

You are a not a partner
just a hundred shades
of pretty little prey
that she craves,
and you will easily cave
to the charade that she parades,
to the play which she plays,
because you are desperate
in the perfect way
for her cruel love game.

Unprepared,
I sat and stared,
saw the despair
you shared,
not outright
but by the
fractures in your skin.

How your porcelain
starting cracking
and shattering,
how the weight
of everything
that was mattering
was just a smattering
expanding
and being pulled in,
an explosion, implosion,
finally denoting the eroding
of all that was once
your granite composure.

One poem a day
is what I try to attain.
I don’t even require
that all of them
are great,
but today
I need three poems
get me to
the weekly objective
I set for myself.

So, I am searching through
that pulpy goo
and purple ****
to find the rind
that sits and fits
in my imperfectness,
because I fell behind.

Now, I only need two.

Too much life will ****
your will to live and feel.
It’s a presence pushing in,
constantly pounding,
pretty pulses projecting,
energy worth inspecting
as an existence worth dissecting.

Desire equal to
one’s willingness to move,
as the same love is denied,
such passions are rebuffed
but others do not get to decide
whether your desires are right.

Expectations say
men aren’t supposed
think or act that way,
but there are years
where tears were
a reoccurring visitor.

Joys are allowed in as well,
an ecstasy of elevating
than crashing to devastating
proportions,
as happiness’s abortion
brings you back to earth.

Crashes from the atmosphere,
in longing for empathy,
for anyone to finally reach me,
while begging for everyone
to leave me alone.

There is nothing simple or clean
about the mess made by
my biological machine,
metal madness made flesh
thumping, rising in time
to be repressed, and depressed.

No god found just the sound
of other people’s pain intruding
solitude and peace eluding,
while I am exuding confidence and joy
I am ready to cash in finally crashing
into nothing.

That thin blue line
is razor wire,
is a gasoline-soaked blanket
trying to smother a fire
that it started,
its apples that are rotten
from the very bottom
cause the roots are
soaking up lots of poison.

Even though, I know
we got one bad seed,
and he’s been convicted,
he hasn’t been sentenced.
So, I will need to wait and see
how this ends
for Officer Chauvin.