She doesn’t know that I am obsessed.
Feeling desire’s fury, I am possessed,
with the sudden need that is freed
and makes me want to believe
there is somewhere we could be
together.

That the hours spent being observant
on the internet and in person,
has turned me into a pervert,
but I wouldn’t do anything to hurt
her pride or dignity.
In reality, I probably
won’t even bother bothering
this muscle queen that I have seen.

Wearing well developed shoulders,
She is pretty and pretty **** nice,
but I am one of those polite guys
that girls don’t bother to look at.

So, later on when she leaves,
I will hold open
the door at the gym
watching her float away
like a sweet breeze.
I will be quite pleased
if she even gifts me
a slight grin of gratitude
for my gentlemanly
behavior.

We live in
a kingdom
of silent hearts,
and soft whispers
in muffled patterns
that used to beat
loudly and proudly.

We started from
a tiny kingdom
that brought
new lesson,
where teachers taught
what has now left us.

I miss that sparkle,
that hopeful
spatial
movement,
where we were
rising higher,
as children who
aspired
to inspired new heights.

Now the kingdom cries
for all the hopes and dreams
that left this slowly dimming life,
as all of our stars burn out,
and day becomes night,
and night becomes
the black blank
of this sunless
reality.

If I came across
the pain of loss
and the grievous
wounds you are wearing,

saw the stain fall and flow
on the floor and go slow
like marching ants
across the off-white tiles,

I would try to
get down and
invite you
back into this life,

but even I know
sometimes the night
is far more appealing
than the light.

Sometimes,
even a hundred
good reasons to stay
can’t overcome the one
that makes you want to run away.

Empathy is What makes us an amazing species. It is how close we can actually come to understanding another's pain. It is a spark that lights the flame of compassion. As artists we engage that emotion in other's hope to utilize to our own ends.

       My greatest ambition has always been to write that which inspires love and compassion. To create some thing that clears the distance between you and me, and makes this a world of us.

      I have failed but continue to try.

I got a lifetime of reaching,
sticking my neck out
and pleading
for you to stop the bleeding,
or help me let the flow go
all out.

I may have my doubts,
but rage is a certainty,
and I can certainly see
how you love your stupidity.

Equations written,
but instead of wisdom
you take the chalkboards
and fill them
with the scribbles of children,
as you become smitten
with committing
to business guy’s
greed and lies.

I tried to give you what you needed,
but you got bad boy lust dust
just spilling out,
with a hand full of farts
that you tell me
aren’t smelly.

This is a chilling bout,
and I am on my last round,
as this fast fat clown drowns
all the sheep in their sleep.

My *** has long since boiled over.
All the huff, fluff, and puff I got
has stopped,
and I am just this close to not
caring for
the clueless collective anymore.

Everyone’s getting sick,
out work without a check,
and their healthcare is ****,

cause insurance is something
that they can’t even get.

They say keep your distance,
but we were distant long before
we turned a pandemic into a war.

Strangers rush the stores,
trying to buy more
then they need,
but that’s from fear
not from greed.

So, people stay away,
and I don’t see
the children going out to play,

last month everything was okay,
but less than three weeks ago
our whole world up and changed.

A blue clad man stands,
supposedly
strong and proudly,
but underneath
the macho bleeds,
and he feels
that he is too weak,
so internally
he speaks.

Shame on him
for not always smiling,
for occasionally faltering,
and unknowingly exposing
any real emotions.

Shame on him
for not pushing
to complete exhaustion
to reach imagined
standards of perfection.

Shame on him
for not stretching
to harbor every single
lonely scarred
broken heart
that needs
a helping hand.

What a shame,
Isn’t he a man?

She has been such a generous familiar,
having given much to many.

Has been entering and leaving
ever since it all began,
ever present
before we called it
summer,
spring, fall,
or winter.

The face of many forms
wearing that of mother,
brother, father, friends
or past lover
who will not
come again.

She has been gentle
with a serene beauty,
and brutally
violent,
with such depravity,
and callous cruelty.

She has been
in memories
and anxious fantasies
of things that
may never be.

I hope that
perhaps she
will take me
while I am sleeping.

Forgive me
for my level of
gross insensitivity.

Please pardon
my passing stares,
forgo those old
fierce glares.

I did not mean to
act up and offend you.
Its just that
I like to look at
beautiful things.

I know you think
I am some sort of creep,
but I observe many
lovely things
from flowing waters
foaming up
as they chase the sands,
pulling beach back in
this gorgeous ocean,

or the feline creature
who gracefully moves
at her own leisure,
with her slick black fur streaks
as she sneaks and seeks
something squirmy to eat,
such a predatory work of art,

or the pink flower unfolded,
long before her blooms
are consumed
by time’s terrible decay.

Please allow me this
as a lonely artist,
I am merely appreciating
the art that is
your loveliness.

We will return our grief
give back nutrients
to the trees
and their leaves.

We will settle down
on soft brown ground,
a bed like mound
to rest at ease.

This will be our peace.

I loved my unfettered solitude.

Until, time took my disposition
and made it the human mission
to remain secluded from everyone.

I loved moving into people’s view
like little leaky drips,
just giving them sugary drops
so that when it stops
I leave them wanting more.

But that was before
closing the door
was a mandate,
and my natural state
became something I hate
cause it causes tear stains
of familiar pains
that I thought
had longs since got lost
in a past I forgot.

Gemini burns bright tonight,
sees a powerful light
piercing our gentle lives.

Twins skies scorched
by ice fire,
torched
by a devastating desire
to not expire.

Turquois to orange blazes
that guide us through
these strange mazes;

with sad glances
one twin fades
as the other one faces
grief,
and a similar onset
of eternal sleep.

Gemini falls quiet,
and her children blush
with the final flush,
then sees sweet shades
slip slowly away
from our face
and like ashes
we all fall down.

I weep for humanity
and what we could
have been.

Though we are soft bodies
drifting in the cosmos,

we could have set sail
pursuing dreams.

Now,
deep thought are lost
fading fast
into the past.

I discard my sleep
to wake in grief
with tears on my cheek
knowing sweet
sci-fi hopes
will never come again.

We did not evolve
to sit alone all
walled up in
our personal prisons.

We grew to be
hugging and touching,
not hiding
and scared,
afraid that the virus out there
will get us
and cause
us to be
the reason why
our loved ones
get sick and die.

We did not survive this long
by existing in
a state of constant anxiety
and suspicion,
of being timid when
stranger come in
needing help,
but now we hesitate
not out of hate
but from a desire
to keep those we love safe.

We grew to be
something
of beauty,
a collective to see
striving for the betterment
our shared humanity.

Or, perhaps, that was
just my little fantasy
and this fear induced reality
of isolation
that we’re facing,
is the place
we have been racing
to get to since
the industrial revolution.

She’s got a heart
as warm as winter
permafrost,
or a cold artic cave
were adventurers get lost.

She’s got a body
like a Venus fly trap
and when you get caught
you’ll never come back;

But she has a mind
like Eden’s garden
beautiful with
an outer shell
that has hardened,
a place where
dreams expand
and thoughts demand
grand exploration,

but no one enters
this paradise
that her last lovers
departed.

Leaving all this grieving green
to remain forever unseen.

At times
I have made light
of their crimes,

turned grievous wounds
into weak bee stings
so you could see these things
in softer shades than me.

I have turned night into day
and watched those I love
dance and play
embraced by beautiful rays
while I stay awake
in the darker hours.

I have used poetry and levity
to elevate strangers above me
despite our shared suffering.

I have scoffed at my pain,
lay bleeding to death
while I stifled tears and dressed
pin ****** and paper cuts.

I have felt your sorrow,
and put your comfort
above my well-being,
but now I am seeing
that it might not have been
the right thing to do,

because you
have gotten far too fat and lazy
laying in the excrement
of your own ignorance.

Though, I have doubted much,
I do not doubt this,
and I am tired of trying to educate
those who no longer wish
or have never even desired
to be better than
the racist redneck men
who inspired them
to give in to fear and hate.

My dear I know it should be clear,
but I fear to tread and tarry here,
because your madness is so appealing.

Revealing
eyes of passion blue,
that burn with the ill-intent
of what you plan to do,

the furies you will harness
going from seriously harmless
to sinister in seconds.

Yet, red wet lips are made for stealing
the warm affections that I’m withholding,
withdrawing deposits, I should be saving
for another worthy lover,

but your disposition is enslaving,
ensnaring me in in your insanity
as if it was a bear trap.
I can feel my bones snap
as my will collapses.
So, I lay back
to submit to
what you will do.

Until, you leave me dying
and drying
from an unquenched thirst
and a deep hue of blue
that hurts worse
then the pain you caused
while you were here.

I am not depressed.
I’m just revisiting
similar settings
where I was possessed
by depths
of melancholia
that I thought
no longer had
any hold on me.

I am not crying
except in dreams,
from which I wake
to escape sad scenes
of strange things
that never happened.

I not despondent.
I’m sure I will
respond if
someone
asks me to.

But this room does feel cold.
I have been sleeping a lot today.
Need to workout
but my gym is closed
and I have forgotten
how it feels to be passionate enough
to workout at home.

I am fine.
I swear that everything is ok.
I’ll see you tomorrow
whilst I stew over
the pains that slew
my yesterday moods.

I’ve seen one fragile body
go from zero to sixty,
go from nothing to anxiety
and shaking
then to thin arms of rage
and a voice made for breaking
those she loved.

I’ve seen the thin lines
on her skin
as the child tries to
take what tears her up from within
and pull out all of her feelings.

I’ve seen a grown man
break down and cry
unable to verbalize why.

I’ve watched the world
and felts its pain
but seldom got up
to save them all
and that is my personal shame.

Life’s the poison that you make
to take as your breakfast shake
just to go out and face
the coal and the rake
that runs you down
and burns you all over the place,
and the symptoms that you see
are the result of our shared social disease.

Some grow immune.
Some just get dull,
and nothing is all
that they can feel.

Some spend a life
in states of stress
burning through
the brain they have
till they’re broken
and raving mad.

The director,
stage setter
for this actor;

What matters
is the placard
that they place there
to mark a space
for time to air
a multi-verse
of unanswered prayers.

Axe dropped,
action stopped,
“Cut!”
I hear,
because we are
being very clear
that every movement
is staged,
played for some purpose.

Perhaps to breaks us
of the meaning we love
to make out of chaos
or maybe the design
to help us find
the opposite
of chaotic.

Razor shifts,
cutting through the mist
of madness
as we paint this
world with a stained plaid dress
that turns from two shades
to darker wet reds.

What a mess this **** is.
I say we edit it at the end.

Though, I am vigilant,
I’m a ****** participant
in this world we are living in.

While, I am observing it
I am pretty ambivalent
cause I know how ****** up it is.

Its work time and I am
earning my pay
by seeing the day
fade quickly away,
while I am forced to
stay glued to
the CCTV
I watch for security.

Camera distortions
of strange changing proportions
shift from shades of blue
to blobs of green,

as my fatigued brain is sprained
trying to come up with
some sort of quiet game.

I listen to the cooling system.
I listen to the elevator.
I listen to the world outside
wishing that it was so much later.

My mind is a prison
that strong thoughts live in,
a place whose dominion
is given to flights of fancy
that only a few fellow creatives
are allowed to view.

I’ve dealt with fascist,
super A type asshats
that want to control everything.
They are frequently strictly
overmanaging me.

I am not conservative or liberal.
I am poetic not literal,
so please don’t feed me your vitriol.

I got no political agenda
except to convince you
to basically just be
a kinder collectively.

So, give me less attitude
and I will give you
a life lived with gratitude.

The heart that has been haloed
by horrible years of abuse,
ill-used still learns to view
the world with love
and tidal waves of
compassion.

The mind that has been
constantly poisoned
by ruthless men
and heartless women,
still finds that little
sparkling light
to push back the snakes
that slither in the night.

The person
who could have been
horrible,
but chose instead
to take the terrors
that stir in his head
and brew a better
not bitter being.

May not be the prettiest thing,
but is far more beautiful than
any Hollywood fantasy.

I once held
high ideals.

Hoping that I
would not sit
idly by
while others tried
to use and abuse
the disenfranchised.

Hoping that I
could use my creativity
to wake and relate all people
to their dormant humanity.

Hoping that I
would not turn
a blind eye
to a person in pain,
or a person being shamed
for that which
they have no power
to change.

Hoping that I
would never act unkind,
betraying those things
I held dear to my being,
such grand moral standards.

I failed and still do,
in favor of self-comforting,
in accepting the view
that nothing I do
matters.

I failed faltering
in moments of weakness,
and sadly I
still fail to rise
to the levels
I wished to reach
and fly.

The best artistry enraptures its creator in a fugue of furious activity that is almost beyond his/her control. They are overcome with inspiration and must follow it. It is the unconscious mind ripping and taring at the fabric of the creators mind, and it is is the closest thing to ecstasy I know.

If I could live in
an eternal state of
the sun setting and rising
with dark night
starlight twinkles
interspersed
in cosmic bursts
of transient glory.

If I could **** the chaos
of daily moving
from one maddening moment
to the next mad rush
as we brush by people
we will never meet
on these cacophonous
streets.

If I could feel the quiet
invade my being
going deep and drawing
from the dark depths
that I possess
to create poetry
that is less of a mess
then my usual
lines.

I think I would be fine
with all that lonely time,
with the inevitable ache
of being awake
in a world void
of people.
Even though,
I know
it would bring
some old familiar sting,

the beauty of creating
something
truly inspiring
would be worth the price.

It used to be
that you and me
could be together,
but the cold wind
is blowing in
this wicked weather
and forever
has changed to
never ever.

I used to see
dreams swirling free
and on those days
those glowing bays
glimmered as they
flowed away,
shimmering
above swimming
folks at play,
that were bathed
in bent rays
of happiness.

Now, I know
that hope
does not exist.

I try to smile freely
give my all gratefully
not expecting
much of anything
and nothing
much is returned to me.

Yesterday,
was not great
and tomorrow
is no gravy train.

The future
comes in too cold,
and I am a tired old man
biding my timecont.
till I am dying
on the company dime.

Why are there so many jingles about snacks cakes
and all of the other treats that little Debbie makes,

and why when I stargaze,
is it donuts that I crave?

I know that it’s disgusting,
makes me slow, and poor at adjusting,
while it has my pink gut busting.

Still, it’s the junk food that I love
even though, I know what does.

Why does my body
desire what’s unhealthy
especially when I am tired?

Have I been preprogrammed
or am I a ******* addict.

It’s too late to be forgiven.
In truth I was merely living,
not trying to fit in
but still getting
too comfortable with
just trying to exist
in mere moments.

I wasn’t a pretty party guy
who was trying to get high.
I’m pretty sure I was
sound of mind,
so, the fact that I did not make time
to visit my transient treasures
that were slowly disintegrating,
that fact that I left loved ones
alone and dying
without really trying to go see them.

That is my sin,
and one I seem hell bent
on sadly repeating.

I find my humanity
in stories,
in Japanese Anime
and cool manga,
where all those heroes
spring from things
that seem unbearable.

I find my humanity
in far flung fantasies,
of fictional realities
where characters strive to be
better than they were previously,
where they are constantly
working and growing like me.

I find my humanity
in flowing verses of poetry
that sweep stale cobwebs
from my sad cluttered head
and help me see things differently,
which is what my scifi perspectives
also offer me.

Even though, sorrow stains my
poetic flows,
bringing in
cynicism,
and anger towards my fellow men.
Even when people tend
toward hateful trends
of violence, sexism, racism,

somewhere in the art I love
lay similar hearts of
humane ambition,
of nuclear fission,
of dreamers on a mission,
and there my humanity
is frequently restored to me.

It’s the internet
and I hate it,
dealing daily with
raving lunatics.

On a regular basis
I see raging faces
of uniformed racist
ranting about baseless
accusations.

I thought I had the solution,
to the mass confusion
generated by
all those pasty old guys.

I was certain,
and I rationalized
that once they realized
that the fox news dudes
we’re feeding them lies,
they would come around
to my point of view.

What a sweet certain avenue
I followed you through
thinking reasoning was needed
and that it would change you who
truly believed in the hate that you seeded.

But now I admit I am defeated.
As far as I can see
some people are not open
to changing and growing.

No more tears left in me,
so back to my bubble I go,
where my people agree
and know what I know,
a safe space where I will stay,
cause while the world burns
I am certain to be squirreled away
with the rest of my disheartened,
dry eyed dying idealists.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

As the blackness is dispelled
and the cold weather retreats,

As the winter returns
all that lost spring heat,

As the bird begin their seasoned production
of life’s renewal,

I will recall your small gentle smile
and how it was a glimmering jewel.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

Tomorrow does not exist
and yesterday will not be missed
there is only these fleeting moments,
let me enjoy them while I can.

Till the light I see collapses
and my body cannot move.
Till all my memories are lapses
and I never find the missing clues
to glue them back together.

Then the light will retreat,
and the shadows will descend
and there will be no more whispers
or softs breaths from any friends.

Not a country simpleton,
not the typical bumpkin.
Don’t have time to try and fit in
this redneck city I’ve been
living in
since before I was ten.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Devoured too many books to count,
searching for the fount
of knowledge and compassion,
searching for new question
to great unknown answers.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Lost myself in star lit skies,
with clouds that stretch back
far enough to revisit my past,
admired the massive black tapestry
that seems to be punctured by
light holes from some unknown
set of new realities,
each one having its own star’s
worth of gravity.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Not looking for the eternal soul,
and any form of immortality
just seems like a sick joke.
Instead I keep pushing on.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

I’ll keep going on till this particular
configuration of particles
ceases seeking
new ideas that keep speaking
poetry into my being.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Paperback writer,
write a worthy
tale of a dreamer
dying in a
sleeping city.

Little novelist,
tell the stories
of life’s goriest
victories,
when irony
overcame sanity
and we suffered
the saddest defeat
at our own
oiled winner’s
seat of cold
winter stone.

A hollow helping
of hordes of harpies
seeking happiness
in grand acts of
capitalistic solidarity.

Weary weaver
unravel your yarn
and spin me
a better ending
then the one
I see coming,
because your twists
have become
too easy to predict.
Your stories usually
play out like promised
by the unartistic establishment
and I would like that to
change just a bit.

So, lets fix this ****
and turn reality
into the work of poetry, I know it can be.

Staring at the stars,
never got me very far,
as far as you could see.

But in my head
when all was dead
I was flying free.

After earth and beyond,
in the time when
you all were gone
I moved on.

Solar sails
spread about
and there was not
a trace of doubt
to hold me back
as I traveled beyond the black.

Staring at the stars and past
as light years passed,
new questions asked
were mine to answer.

This cosmic dancer
swirled in the void
to explore and avoid
being destroyed
like my predecessor.

The one successor
to humanity’s endeavors,
the very clever me.

I do not look back
at my precious planet
but forever flee,
so I never have to see
the scorched scarred
planetary
destruction that haunts me. 

Now, I stare lovingly
out at the space
that beckons me
to travel in infinity.

Sparkling spiral galaxies,
unknown potentialities,
all these fantasies belong to me
as I daydream
staring at the stars.

I am the stone you skipped,
the heart you forget
as soon as you let go of it.

I am the lost horizon
once the hot guy comes in,
and you leave favoring him.

I the note not played
and the loss of it changes
the whole freaking arrangement.

I am the man you abandoned
because of your derangement
as you fawn over an *******
who can’t even pass anger management.

So, when you cry and ask
why you can’t find a good guy
I’ll cry and laugh at the madness
of even trying to be kind.

I am pretty sure
that this pretty girl
is going to wreck
my fragile world.

I’ve spent a lifetime
hardening my skin
to keep anyone
from creeping in;

But my barriers
have been dropping,
and this lead heart
has stopped stopping
potential intruders.

I feel very vulnerable,
like she is going to go
and turn my armor plating
into something pliable
and I am liable
to let go of my old
cold septic skeptic soul.

She is a rush,
as my breath
exists thus,
what this addict craves
that which will enslave
as I cave
to her encroachment,

and we haven’t even
had our first date.

I haven’t rested
in several days
and all the energy
I ‘ve invested
does not pay
back anything but
black rays of pain.

My mind is foggy,
my fingers fumble.
I am not coherent.
I merely mumble
as I stumble out
to deal with my doubt.

So, tired and I need
just a little bit of
sweet relief sleep.

My eyes are red.
My head is sore
I’d like an hour
but could take seven more.

My vision blurs,
and smoky mists
split apart in front of me
even though I know
they don’t exist.

Little off white flakes
fall like fake
snow,
but I know this is more ash
to feed the fast growing
sleep deprived madness
that I am showing.

The screen is becoming
a blur of red marks
meant to remind me
that my spelling
is worsening,

and I can’t find the end
of this late-night poem
because I am so freaking
tired.

She is soft sweater fruit
waiting to bulge
and see blushing flesh be devoured by me
because I am starving.

Hungry as a zombie.
Hungrier than an army
of men who have not eaten
in nine to ten years.

I am famished,
longing for something
I thought had long since vanished.

That sparkle of sweet wine
ready to be picked
and licked straight from the vine
cause she is so **** fine.

I want to envelope her
in affection,
swallow her body with mine
guarding the treasure
that I find,
a mind
which seems to see me
with the same hunger.

There is a furnace
that burnt us,
turning smiles to dust
and kindness
to distrust.

A place where
suspicion
was sharpened
to the point of
cutting the hearts
that might
offer true love.

In that hell
some have seen
a shell
form around themselves
whilst others have internalized
the fires that fried their lives.

I have been there to
and turn those blazes toward
breaking swords
and building bridges
to places where we
can be a gentler breed
of humanity.

What makes us human,
is not easily defined?

What clutters this mess
we call conscious
is not something
I can measure well
with my mind?

What drives the feminine mystique
is a perilous penultimate peak
which I seek?

What moves us all
to walk or crawl
when life’s pain
is overriding
our common sense
when our existence
does not permit this
persistence?

What is the truth?

The world melts this minor being,
and brings me bulging colors
that are bound to smother,
changing flavors that I savor,
and simple pleasures
for my leisure
into tiny tear glass droplets.

A kaleidoscope
that humans broke
but still strange swirls
geometric
help me through
the ***** that’s hectic.

I rebel against the entropy,
even as my own particles
turn against me.
Chaos is my mortal enemy
but still I seek structure
longing for order,
whilst knowing that it is all a lie.

I try to thrive,
despite how life splits me
eye from eye
offering inverted perspectives
as I turn inward
to find the shadows
and angles that built this
city of strangeness.

I fall to slumber
uncertain of it all.
Then awaken to spring
still waiting to fall
chilled by the feel
of December’s tentative tentacles.

It’s not a mission
just a transition
one step forward
but still remembering
where I came from
so, I can go on living for
what I aim for.

It’s not a vision
that I am pursuing
or a narrative
that is worth viewing.
It’s just a collection
of interacting moments
that I experience
without knowing
where they are going.

It’s not special
unless I declare it so.
It’s not harmful
unless I let be so.
There may be bad things
but they don’t own me,
and I can be better than
what this world has shown me.

Bloated buffoon
looks like an
orange painted baboon,
and this is me
writing as the moon
settles and sends streams
of deep blue
thoughts into my dreams.

I am not currently adding
a **** thing
to what we are discussing,
just venting in poetry.

But I watch the mad masses
follow him
into oblivion
believing
that what they are seeing
isn’t reality.

The king of no tact
and he just reacts
without a tac of facts
to point to,
and like him
they are reacting
without a lick of sense
to hold them back.

So, they stroll
with a straw-hat troll
who has no self-control
to a place from which
they will never come home.

I palm my face
in shame for my race
and all that I can offer is
another freaking useless
stanza of words
no one will heed
or even read.

There is a gap,
between that
which holds me back,
and that which
makes me laugh,
until I am able to
launch myself
right past
that *******
obstruction.

It was stained glass dreams
of fire red rays
that burnt blood rivers
and sent blues sprays
of infinite squares
to cut up my madness
and sit me silent
in my stupefied stares
of chaos’s natural contemplation.

Sometimes,
when the shadows rise,
and lips spread wide
giving me a glimpse
of the otherside
of what might
be love,

I pretend
this is just my next friend
and tell myself
she is probably a lesbian,
that way I do not bother
risking any hope.
That way I can cope
by rationalizing away
any opportunity
to get my heart broke.

It is easy to be me
without adding the complexity
of hoping she may love me.
So, I can just be
her next nerdy buddy.