Sometimes,
I sit and wonder
is my brain wired
in the wrong way.

I'm working all day
on weird word play,
using premium unleaded
instead of the previously embedded
stinking repeated
cliches no one needed.

Watered down con artists
feed men
outdated whines,
have them *******
diluted delusions
and fractured facts
that don't add
up to good math.

I'm not a beast that beats
better techniques.
I’m the man who eats
whatever he reads
to replete my muse’s muscles
with the protein she needs
along with her emotional greens,
and random natural fruity scenes,

but there are not enough nutrients
to save me from the atrophy of
humanity’s inability to grow and love.

I'm not made
for the marketplace
or the safe space
where people race
because they don't want to face
how it feels to be displaced
and treated like human waste.

But why is it
when dark dreams visit
they are as stark
as a shark's
sharp teeth
as those canines
are embedded in me?

Why do they shake
and take
bits and pieces
but never release
what this beast is
trying to eat,
making lines of liquid crimson
that swirl and dissipate
as I lose my conscious state?

I fight the fright.
I write
the nightmares that most prefer to hide
because my mind
is an art form
born in a **** storm
torn apart
for the hearts
that abhor
the dreams I keep stored
on my moist bathroom floor,
under my feet
where other monsters plan to meet
then come out to greet and eat me.

I remember there was time
when all I knew how to do
was write a simple rhyme.

When syllables were sounded out
and I never had any doubts
that people would come to
understand what I was
trying so hard to do.

But as the days went flashing past,
as every single poetic query asked
in hopes of harvesting
some sort of understanding
saw my heart’s standing
slowly decline and fall off the vine
to be crushed into pulpy and ****** wine.

Days of devotions
turned to weeks of
just going through the motion.
My grandest schemes
turned into dusty dying things
and my spirit withered
in the desert, starving
and dehydrating.

Now, I have a skeptic’s wisdom
and the dreams I once tried to
give to all who live
have become the victim,
eviscerated and desecrated
by the lies of those who thrive
on making Americans
into automatons
and all other humans hated
for not being dumb and isolated.

What is grief,
but the withdrawal symptoms
of a drug we may not have known
we were taking,
the transmogrification
of affection’s deeper emotions
into the compensation
and reorientation
of our strained
inner identity,
in the absence
of the loved ones
treasured presence.

I am sorry
that I am only
partly
here
and far away
in the same breath
while living
and sleeping
as stilly
as death.

Time
does not permit me
a true moment of
serenity,
cause my affinity
is for the cosmos
that I adore.

Furiously flashing
expanses
that have been
outlasting
every mortal thing,
all human beings
are just sparks
that play
small parts
in smaller hearts,
which is why
as time passes by
I am learning to fly
way past the night sky.

That’s why
I am not the guy
who could settle
for a simple life,

even when I am
holding your hand
I am dancing on
foreign lands,
toes twisting in
Martian sands,
and as it stands
I have big plans
to expand
what I understand
as I study to create
and elevate
my mental state
right past
the fictional holes
that blast
our fat *****
way beyond
purple space gasses.

Even though, I know
you to hold
multiple universes
inside,
I can only offer you
half of my mind
cause I am so gone.

An atypical yet spherical mass of spiritual
madness hides behind the mad mind of sadness.

It is poisonous but I am glad of this
biological drug sandwich
that is wrapped in my cerebellum.

I am crazy but I try to tell them,
all those children, women, and working men,
something is not quite right in this system
that tries to lie and sell them lots of corruption.

Reality is harsher than the scraping pavement
that savaged my already ravaged flesh,
tearing away tiny bits of skin and bleeding
barely perceptible drops of blood that are not compatible
with the white and gray grainy walkway.

Metaphors do not explain much anymore,
just cloud the conversation with pretty abstractions,
petty reflections not worth anyone’s inspection,
cause they are diarrhea of my own introspection,
a manifestation that seldom add ups to anything more than
other people’s interpretation.

No matter my intent these words
are just whispers in cyclonic winds,
I can’t imagine anyone cares enough
to let my strange thoughts infect them
with empathy and creative confusion.

Skin to skin
flesh pressing in,
till our shared
compressions
cause a ******.

Then we could
finally relax,
and I’d be
fine with that.

Passion and lust
are so stressful,
struggling to be
successful
in ******
competition,
to fulfill
our desire
with no
inhibition
is such a sloppy
kind of mission.

It is harder
to master
than nuclear fission,
so my decision
is to do it myself.