Somebody’s daughter
is standing on the corner,
covered, almost smothered
in several layers of
***** old winter clothing.

She has mastered the art
of begging with carboard pleas
for something, anything to eat,
while stranger’s have mastered
the art of never seeing her.

Further down the avenue
somebody’s son is sharing
the same sick despairing
hunger pains, and ragged wares.

****** features slightly uneven,
but no one is really looking.
No one ever truly sees him.
So, he scratches his brown beard
and plants his feet where
he thinks he might find
someone with a kind
and generous disposition.

Hundreds of cars roll by
in the day to night sky
with only handful
of hands out the window
to offer him
any compassion.

Hello embittered fighter,
nighttime neck biter
who inspired
more monstrous stories
then all these gory
modern allegories.

How do you do,
you shaggy dude,
who howls at the moon
racing with all that
ravishing wolf prowess
as you go prowling
for your next victim
or late night
kibble nibble.

Hey there my yummy mummy,
how does life hang around
that shriveled form
time has bound
as you try to bandage
your immortal wounds,
while stumbling
and bumbling
with incoherent moans.

Hey fish face
lets race
to the bottomless black lagoon
where dumb surfer dudes
go to party
but end up sleeping with
the fishes,

and to my friend Frankie
I thank thee,
for lately
I have lost that old
monster loving feeling,
but you got the spark
that I needed to bolt back to
that old monster movie,
matinee madness I missed.

Don’t put me down,
when I ‘m not around,
don’t inflate my ego
when I’m playing the clown.

Please just be real
while we are here,
just tell the truth.
I need it to be clear.

Don’t want any flowery words,
if every line is a lying verse.
Please don’t paint this life with
colors that are unable to mix and hit
the marks they are trying to make.

I may write fiction and poetry,
but despite my grand artistry
I just want someone
who wants to be real with me,
someone who is lovingly honest.

Your life is a loaner,
and being born in
a specific nation
puts you in hoc,
under the scrutiny
of those who control
the weekday work clock,

The same guys who got
all the politicians bought,
well they think they own
the work you’ve shown.

So, you stay all day
and work extra late,
till you are exhausted,
till it takes your health
and your mind,
well you’ve lost it.

You work all week long
and if you’re lucky
they will let you rest
on the weekend.

You do this for your family,
but you barely ever see them.

Till you are no longer breathing,
or you beat the odds and retire,

but you probably won’t.
Most likely you’ll expire
on the job, long after
your heart and soul
vacates that flesh
those working hours stole.

Drop my body in the briar
because I’m ready to bleed.
Take my flesh to the fryer
because I’m ready to feed
all those souls in need
of poetic nourishment,
and sweet artistic fulfillment.

I’m done with impediments,
done with settling for all of those
dangerously dry and ***** bits,
when I bring the best poetics.

So, cut me, bleed me,
shake me till I give
all that makes me live,
dripping drops of brilliance,
so you can be blinded
by my radiance.

My ego overflows,
and its still trying to grow
stretching out my clothes
like I’m the incredible hulk,
the big green brute who knows
that all that muscle, hustle, and flow,

well, it doesn’t do much
without the right get up and go.

I am actually pretty tired,
dull and uninspired
so I sired this verse
to shake me from
the curse of having
nothing to say.

I just wrote a poem
that was nothing but play.
Why not?
It meets my quota for
one poem a day.

So, I drop the mich
and saunter away
satisfied with this word play.
Leaving this world stage
shocked to silenced awe.

I long for freedom,
but maybe a little attachment
an attraction of passion,
gentle and arousing,
a fire needing dousing,
that burns with urgency,

a relentless urge to see
someone I desire greatly,
someone who fascinates
with the art she creates,
and thoughtful debates
that help me generate
great ideas.

I long for another’s eyes
to flash with surprise,
because she was
attracted to my minds
and kind heart,
but beneath the sheets
she sees muscles that please,
a shape configured
by hard work
and delivered
for her personal pleasure.

I long to know and be known
to reveal and be shown
with a partner of equal quality
who sees the value in me.

Passion, and love
interspersed with creativity
and compassion
is my fantasy.

I am not a god, or great actor.
No matter what factors stand,
I do not have the luxury of being
anything other than me.
I only get the opportunity
to exist within this community
whilst struggling to improve the quality
of my being.

She is a black haired freckled faced
memory that I would have waited
many lifetimes to share a love with.

She is a tender ghost that has grown
into an adult I’ve never really known,
and even though I to have gotten old
a part of my heart still holds
onto the dream of loving her.

She no longer knows me,
and that is a tragedy
that makes me weep
grievously.

We are no longer children
who can believe in fairy tale dreams.
Neverland can not make us
immortal youths,
only death makes us
eternally young.
So, we never can
get back to that
old loving feeling again.

It is not dreams of space exploration
that pull me from my comfy bed.
It is not grand heroic battles
that keep me dreaming deeply
as something brilliant
stirs within my head.

I am not certain if it is hope
that moves me lumbering
like a starry-eyed fool
always falling forward
failing but trying to improve.

I cannot say if it is fear
that pushes me on
while time devours
every past second
of sweetly flowered
and cherished moments,
succumbing to the numbing
of distance and distortion.

I do not know why I struggle.
I have longs since lost the notions
of fairness and love,
social drugs and idealism
do not override
my late-night fatalism and realism.

In truth I do not have anything,
nothing is mine cause all is transient.
Even these words though poignant
are less then digital dust
in time’s furious
and unrelenting movement,
marching on beyond everything.

It is the shaker and breaker of worlds,
the painful maker of new rules.

It is the clouds that paint your irises
as you dream of past mistakes.
It is the memory that takes
all the breathes you tried to save.

It is an ocean of saltwater tears,
that paints the picture clear
of what you could have,
should have,
and all the other haves
that cut you in halve
and then again
repeating until
you cannot mend,
and you must accept
said sad punishment.

Sometimes it is fair,
sometime opposite
and crueler than
suffocation.

Other times it is a gift,
the great shift
of being complicit
forcing your eyes open
and making you change it,
so you can be better.

Today is the death of hope.
It sees these leaves fall to gloom
and all that was spring
loose its sweet perfumed softness
as bright white blooms disintegrate,

Watches the clock tic tic tok
till time collapses and grief stops,
all moments ceasing,
all beings no longer being seen.

As all winds carry in
the burning stench of carrion,
and bitter stinging rays of radiation,
clouds spitting sickening poison
as mother nature screams in frustration.

Thus, the memory of humanity
recedes in embers and ash
burnt so quickly
and gobbled up as fast.
Till, only the void remains,
to mark the space where we
once rose and fell.

It doesn’t come easy,
but harrows the soul completely,
those murderous men
beast masters wearing
army fatigues
that bomb everything.

Children, and parents,
dead or dying
while family members
crumble crying.

Politicians parrot
strategic obfuscation
of crimes against
another nation.

Water sources stolen,
democracy denied
when it does not supply
capitalistic outcomes
of wealth for the
already really wealthy.

There are real monsters,
call them soldiers and leaders,
killers of the poor hungry people
who were already struggling.

There are real monsters,
businessmen
who are profiting
from the wars in
other poorer regions.

There are real monsters,
ones that we vote in,
that were bought and paid for
by those who want more war.

They paint the world red,
while we go merrily
ignorant to bed.

You heard what I said,
but you will just
stuff it in
a box you never intend
to be opened again
and forget it all.

There were erratic outbursts
of rage and violence.
No bruises, but welts,
all the pain that was dealt
wasn’t as bad as what I felt.

There was depression
and parental inflicted
isolation,
a barren wasteland
of being forced to face
a life of submitting to
the beast hidden from the view
of everyone but me.

There was manipulations,
a parent taking
what sustained me,
that which helped
keep me from killing
every inch of my being,
of driving sharp things
into my skin
and letting all that is red
flow out from within.

There was years of
debasement,
and a parent
that blamed mistakes
on the figments
her religion created.

I wasn’t a bad kid.
I didn’t deserve it.

As an adult
I strive to be the essence of
compassion and kindness.

But I have no patience
for the parent
who did this,
and feel no obligation
to keep her around
or pursue a new relationship.
She can keep her distance,
and we can both go on living
our own separate lives.

You are a musical epiphany
that echoes gently in my memory,
the tiniest of tinglings
in all of my extremities,
a vague but pleasant recollection,
a strange lyrical collection
of poetry the inspires me
to rejoice gratefully.

You my dear are the highlights
of my imaginative nights
and queen of my daydreams.
Elusive as you may seem
you still bring me
soft syllables of sweet sophistry.

So, I gift to thee these words.
Yours to do with as you please.
I release all this artistry
into your gifted hands,
and let what will be
come graciously unto me.

Listen to the sounds of drumming,
that is coming through.
Baby, I am the predator
that is hunting you,

super serial killer,
crazy ****** hummer
of a creepy tune.

When you hear the sound of knocking
you should runaway,
cause toe tapping maniacs
in the carnival
are coming today.

See the sad clown,
and watch the ****** carousal.
When the lights go out
we will all fall then crawl.

The melody is haunting
like those glowing eyes,
semi-circles spinning
in the darkest night.

If it was the devil
that would be a relief,
but this is something darker
then an ancient angelic creep.

Hunger and jagged teeth,
congested growls,
nipping at my feet,
fur so thick it engulfs everything,
when I turn around
and look into the mirror
I see that the beast is me.

It’s a circus of terrors
with too many tops to count,
and there are new nightmares
in every brand new town.

Little zombie dwarves
that claw the ground
riding decaying ponies
with flesh that falls
from their ribs,
while bits of viscous mucus
slides down the strong mans
chiseled vampire grin.

Steeped in all of this horror
how will anyone survive,
and to top it off this is
Halloween night.

Goblin fingers grab you,
laughing at your terror.
You might get a way
for a moment,
but running
will take to nowhere.

Sleeping eternally silent in the void
where no one comes back from,
a place no one can avoid
forever.

I wish it was easier,
that, that ***** didn’t
seize the girl
and with violence
end her fragile world.

I wish there was certainty,
that the just would rise
and we would see
justice served fairly.

I wish there was a scale
that balanced good
and everyone could tell
evil would be discovered easily
and the bad guys would always
end up in jail.

If I had more clout
or courage with less
bouts of doubt
I would turn these
wishes into
a reality that serves
all of humanity,
one that helps us
get over
what the **** dudes
with entitled attitudes
put us all through.

They push and press
tightly pressed against
almost every inch
of my flesh,
while the lights and music
are pulsing.

I try to breath
but my body is tense.
I do not like
all this erratic movement.

They all look nice.
They are all the party type,
pretty girls, and pretty boys to.
They like to play
and move to the loud music grove;

But they are too close.
They bump and sway,
as I try to move away.

I can barely breath
and all I see is insanity.
They call this a party
as they move with the DJ.

There is something in me,
a very primal fear.
My urge is to scream,
move, and get out of here.

I feel exposed,
I hope my friends know
I tried to go
to this party to have a good time
and be social
but every bit of my being
is screaming for me to leave.

I am pretty sure I am panicking.
This whole crowd isn’t natural,
it feels so predatory.

So, I slip out
and texts my friends
as I end up leaving them.
Once again,
I am the boring one.

They murdered the romantic in me,
cut him so deeply he had nothing left,
no blood or organs, no hopes or dreams,
leaving just this floppy lifeless thing.

One knife at a time, in each point
his heart’s affection would find
pure ******* and devastation,
stuck like a pig and drained

put on a hook of pain to be hanged,
one big heartbroken meat sack,
one more rejection like a sword
larger than expected but he took that.

The proffer of perfect prose and
presenter of poetic affection,
princely pauper pushing daisy daydreams,
with rose petal cliché schemes.

Pink prickles, portly pokers
that poked holes in his swollen
but oh so hollow heart.

Then in the end
this sloppy sack of skin
just up and blew away.

I know that
the sun will
still shine fine.

But that
ain’t how
it feels now.

I know life
will return from
winters revenge,
and when
spring
comes back again
that vitamin D
that I need
will replenish me.

But the days
keep getting shorter.
The nights keep
getting colder
and I keep feeling
older and older.

I know I will
feel less stressed,
depressed,
and ill
when I get
a night’s sleep.

But at this moment
work is keeping
my sleepy time,
rest for my mind
hours behind
this long shift.

This world isn’t much.
It’s actually pretty bad
and this population of
people make me so mad,

but every once in a while
I’ll find some art to make me smile,
and get me through
the rougher times.

There’s greed and corruption
corroding all I know,
like an acid that’s dripping
burning my throat.
So, all of this horror I see
is hard to swallow,
and sometimes it makes
it even harder to breathe,

but every once in a while
I’ll see some kindness
that makes me cry and smile.

This reality is way off key,
but I can still hear its discordant melody
singing so many strange verses
of inspiration into me,
makes me love more humanly,
bringing out the better parts
of my torn and tattered humanity
and maybe that is all I need
for now.

My devil is in a spire,
of desires climbing higher,
of passions that inspires
strands of humanity
too burn in the same fire
that is my ever-loving ire.

My angel resides
on the other side
of my dreaming demon mind,
passed parallel dimensions
as specters whisper
their spiritual intentions
to haunt me from
kingdom come
and back again.

Vipers spitting poison,
while lesser men
are poised to win,
but I take pleasure in
always struggling
to gain a single inch,
always crawling,
and scrawling
little bits of brilliance.

Sitting in some strange setting,  
but I am not a man for betting,
the books are closed,
the dice predisposed
to poorer roles,
and all the polls
are filled with ill-intent.

Here I am
somnambulant
sleeping, but moving
in minor increments,
so I can grasp the dreams
that stir within
my weary mind,
jot them down before
they fade like autumn leaves
crumbling in the breeze
and exiting.

In this writing you may find
a treasure chest or a pile of ****,
a bowel of bananas or more excrement
it all depends on how you look at it.

It is a sea
of insincere
smiles living here.

Shades of
shady intent,
false compliments
and hidden
under them
bitter lashes.

It is anxiety,
and a lifetime
of learning
that everyone
else maybe fine

but because
those I love
hurt me
I will never
trust easily.

Thus,
I reflect
on the pain
of a suspicious mind,

hoping that
my past’s
bitter heart
has lost
the painful edge,
and I can
make a new start.

I know
its time to go,
even though
I wish time
would slow.

I know
that seasons
change,
and summer’s
elations
will be
winter’s bane
as I recall
them
in the heat
of a cold fire
pain.

I know
that you are gone
bone thin
goblin
elderly
grandma,

and the guilt
I feel
is still
a very real
***** deal.

I know this
is a cheap verse
but I only got
a few minutes
to jot it down.

I guess that is just
the gist of all of this
amidst all I know
I am certain
I have lost a bit
of bliss
in aging.

So, now I know
I miss the past
and feel like
replaying
the memory footage
of old days,

But I know
that this is
lazy writing,
and I won’t
get back that way
anytime soon.

There may be
some grief
calling me
back to my
strange history.

Some inner aching
pulling the strings
of old memories.

With leaves that leave
a cold fall tree,
I see spring colors
transitioning
to summer shades,
then autumnal tints,
till they crumble
under my humble
feet, fading before
the coming winter wars.

Like sweet pets
who have passed,
like the few fallen
life companions,
and family members
who fell to embers
then to the smoking ash
of time’s eternal flame.

I am pulled back there
for just a second,
take stock and own
all those precious moments
I have known
recalling all that I can
with a nostalgic appreciation.

Then let it go,
if I am able to,
and move on.

They got you
struggling and sweating
but never ever getting,
what you’re working for,
just regretting
the wasted work weekends
that you could have spent
with family and friends.

Busting your ***
while your boss
busts your chops,

piles of work so high
that even nine nights
of nine hours overtime
can’t catch you up.

So, another day late
while your family waits.
The sunlight is gone before
you even hit the door
to go home again around ten p.m.,
and you came in when
it was still dark and raining
in the very early a.m.

Food and clothes,
restaurants, and shows
vehicle repairs,
health, home,
and car insurance,
college tuition,
then loan repayment,
mortgage, medical debt,
and the bills aren’t done yet.
No money left,
for your late retirement;

What’s the point of
being crushed
under all of that
work stuff
when the pay
doesn’t add up
to enough
to get by
late in life?

Its been a hard time.
Your anxiety is high
and on the rise.
You’re on the verge of
being hot headed enough
to burn all your bridges
and fail all those missions
you’ve been working on.

Slow your roll,
know your soul,
take some self-control,
let it all go,
so you can grow.

Between a rock
and two harder places,
living in crowed spaces
while tensions are growing
patience is going
the way of the dodo.
You and I both know
these smokes stacks
could easily blow.

Slow your roll,
know your soul,
take some self-control,
let it all go,
so you can grow.

Coins in a fountain
won’t get you any wishes.
These mole hills are vicious
and may really be
the jagged edges
of mountains
ready to come crashing down
and smash the ground
you built your
foundations on.

Slow your roll,
know your soul,
take some self-control,
let it all go,
so you can grow.

You may want a little
sugary snack
with a side of
captain jack
and a couple of packs
to smoke
before your heart attacks.
There may still be
some time for all
of that,
sweet surrender
to the tender
pleasures
unhealthy activities render.

But maybe instead
you should turn your head
take a breath,

and slow your roll,
know your soul,
take some self-control,
let it all go,
so you can grow.

This techno toxification
has overridden
the better parts
of my younger heart,

stealing my idealism
and replacing it with
toxic digital *******,

multi-window
varied speed
hi-rez videos
that don’t offer
anything
I really need.

They spike my brain
disrupting it with
excessive hits
of unexpected
dopamine.

Still, I go on
living life in
thirty second
increments.

My attention span
is diminished
while life’s demands
are like poorly planned
skirmishes.

But what this
age of wonders
offers is
access to unlimited
connections
and information.
A way to override
the overlords
of state and business
and connect to people
that we may not know
but could grow with us
and learn to love
compassionately.

A streak of flames
chases me
down familiar
family streets,

pass memories,
those sweet vagaries
of yester year,

and in their wake
the fires take
all that I was,

incinerate
all I hated
and what I loved.

Smiles and friends,
fun weekends
turn to ash.

Faces of
my loved one
blur and
fade too
freaking fast.

Childhood homes
and adult apartments
crumble under
the burning fury
of all the rage that was lit.

School playground
and the campground
where grandpa worked,

like all of us
turn to black dust
and disappear.

Then all the stars
that I once watched
blink out of
existence,

the last thing
that I feel
is my consciousness
disintegrating,
as tingling bits of me
are being rended from
my dying reality.

This is an
ego boosting
brag poem,

made to dazzle
others and show’em
how clever I am.

Cause the depths
I swim in
leave other men
dribbling, drooling,
and drowning.

The waters dark
that I chart
still chill the
bravest hearts,

and the horizon
I rise in
like the phoenix,
though burnt
flies and fries
the clouded skies.

I see sullen fools
flee frightened
from the fiery light.
They despise me
for my wit
and geniality,
for the talents
I have nurtured
and the artistry
I have sired,

drawing universes
from the fires
in which
they smolder
and expire.

I don’t know how to hunt,
and I am less then adept at fishing.

I cannot fix mechanical stuff
but I’ve mastered the art of *******.

I got a gift for creating laughter.
I’m an awesome singer,
but a sub-par social actor.
I’m an ok artist,
and a masterful writer,
a decent observer,
of human behavior,
and an above average fighter.

So, if this is the end of the world
and you are looking for useful survivors,
I would not pick me first.
Even though, I can keep the mood lighter.

We are just little vessels,
precious porcelain angels
or rounded rebel devils
driven by what is inside
and how it interacts
with our outer facts
or our minor perspectives
distorted by different aspects
of our faulty flesh perceiver,
that super stimulus receiver.

We are many ecosystems
not singular structures
but a collective composed of
cellular and atomic dimensions,
too many to calculate or to mention
that are beyond our comprehension.

Conscious and unconscious
neural highways
or the many limbs on a tree
that have no leaves
but branch out and leave
as we learn new things
whilst pruning unused circuitry.

Therein lay a space
where poets dream and play,
a multiplicity
of connected
and disconnected
multiverses.

So complicated.

I touch the pillow and breath in,
the waning scent of your leaving.
I whisper to the gray wisps of
crying clouds that are grieving.
I clutch the cross of mysteries,
the token you left for remembering,
the metal ornament that cut
scratches in our spiritual love,
refreshing each gaping wound
that you gave me.

Your eyes are like red wine
to a drowning alcoholic,
with lips and skin like ******
to this addled brained addict.

So, I put your portraits up
in my old musty attic.
I took down your paintings
cause the heart of the art
was always so paining.
I placed all of your clothes
in a black glad trash bag
in the back of my shed
where no one else goes;

So, the next time someone
comes looking for a door,
they won’t find any.
All the entrances to my heart
will be securely locked
and no one will get in there
anymore.

I’ve built my life
on a body of bruises,
on singing with
a cringing grin
and never letting
anyone in,
really.

I’ve done my time
with plastered smiles
that hide my shame
and mask a pain
I still can’t truly
give a name.

I’ve given mercy
to every person
except for two.
If you need it
I’d offer it to you
before I ever granted it
to the mirror man
or the motherly beast
who beat him down.

I’ve walked a lot
and ridden fast,
been driven hard,
Still, I can’t escape
what’s in my past.

But I could really
use a win right now.

The fear is that I will disappear,
and no one will even notice
that I am no longer here.

The concern is I can’t stop this
pointless
rhyming scheme,
which has become
sickening.

Between these two things
I know there is so much
that I am certainly missing.

Maybe the deeper fear is
in focusing on what is clearest
I am really missing a
whole world of connections.

Its a long day on my street
the wrong way to go and see
all this city tragedy,
worn sleeping bags
and tattered rags,
all those suffering
lonely roaming people,
and those immigrants
yearning to breathe free.

We didn’t start the fire.
We didn’t light the match.
We didn’t burn the city
down to the tent towns
where homeless hearts
wander wearily around.

But this is the mess
that I am living in,
this is the swap
that politicians have given men
women and innocent children.

All working but still starving
while trying to make a living.

Welcome to my American nightmare.

Just a couple of inches
till I am almost there,
just a couple seconds
and someone might care.

But right now, no one
is asking how I feel.
I just keep checking in
on everyone and that’s
how I manage to deal.

No ghosts in the attic
but I am haunted.
No Mary Shelley
Or Lord Byron
but this is gothic.

A tingling sensation
like it’s my spider sense
cause I know what horrors
are cooking in the cauldron,
those bad vibes are a boiling.

It wouldn’t be the blues,
if once in a great while
you dropped by with a smile
and some speck of good news.

Where will I be
when I turn sixty-three?

Will summertime
come to find
me sitting on
a chair in my
back lawn,
as a stray cat
stretches out
and yawns
to the setting
of the evening sun.

Or will dawn fine me
rising old and lonely
with more regret
for what I have not
done yet
and never will.

Will I be
the patriarch
of a late start
family,
with grandchildren
swarming me.

Or will death find me
several years to early
making sixty-three
this millennial’s
never will be
late night fantasy.

I give kindness freely
as if I had an eternity
of time to share my
gentlemanly disposition.

But trust is reserved
and given only in
minor increments.
It is mostly
non-existent.

Gentle as I am
I resist the urge
to trust a stranger.
Given kind words
even the familiar
seldom earn
my highest esteem.

For what I have seen,
honesty is less enticing
the travesty of finding
fellow friends lying
and vying
for their own interest
has left me introverted.

Even love is held back,
because I do not want
to give anyone that
which could mortally
wound me.

I got years of fears
haunting me.

I am scared.
Can’t eat
or sleep
cause the demons
I hide keep
hounding me.

There’s gonna be
a reckoning
eventually.

Someday,
that pain
will overcome
my reasoning.

There will be
a seasoning
of spiced depression
and old suicidal tendencies
may finally catch up to me
and I’ll have to face
the cutting board of reality.

Then in death
I might rest
peacefully,

or maybe
I’ll just go on
far too long
and live to see
all those I love
pass away
permanently.

What can you say
to a rogue road
word warrior
who fight’s a
new dragon each day.

Tilting windmills
that really are
fat cat monsters
in red sports cars.

Gentlemen protectors,
consummate failures
that succumb to the thumb
of corporate jailors
in this capitalistic
prison system.

Self-directed learner,
midnight oil burner
whose biography
would barely be
a once a day
page turner.

What can you tell
a man who sees hell
in beauty
and pulls
psychedelics
from cow ****.

When reality has been
subjected by
profitable trends
and the world’s end
is only a minor irritation
to their united nation
of bank supporters.

What do you ask
a dreamer
before he passes
knowing that
dead men’s dreams
cannot outlast
greed driven schemes.

The skeptic in me
hears and reads
his works patiently,
but responds
with a despondent
acceptance,
cause the reader believes
the fallacies
of a faith
that have long
eluded me
due to my
stumbling,
humbling
rationality.

My eyes overflow
with her natural
glow that grows,
the beauty of youthful
innocence
perceived in this
pleasant instance,

a chaos of undisclosed
secrets that
only she knows
and a body that flows
brilliantly beneath
her soft clothes,

a poetic mind,
a delicate find
who graces me
with a brief evening’s
meeting,

a friend
just this side
of this dreamer’s life.

I wonder what
it would be like
to touch those
soft cheeks,
to cherish and guard
her sweet artistry
when in hidden
fantasies
wonderful words
are gifted to me;

So lovely,
lonely,
and melancholy
as all dreams
that are never
meant to be
become.

The hurting heart does not decide
which piercing pain lights their life,
does not contend, but sits and pretends
by doing barely more than living
even though they are seriously struggling,
they are surely winning this sixth early inning.
Till, thinning scabs and fetid breath
gives way to blooming fresh rosy flesh.

The spiral rises to brighter skies
then begins to weave and descend
returning the burning heart
to familiar shadows, of snow
cold groves.

Techno distractions
stifles purposeful actions
creating dopamine addicts
who insist,
they cannot miss
a single instance,

that they cannot
disengage and face
a silent moment
with the human race.

Mental fog
flowing in
fast following
a fear of missing
by giving in
to the regeneration
of sleeping.

So, the population slows
their potential growth
and becomes a
herd of heavily
caffeinated, but sedated
children who evacuated
the star trek seat
of hopeful dreams
and scientific schemes.

It is the end of ages
that seizes me
here in dreams
bringing out
stark screams
of pain and doubt.

I wake in terror,
knowing there is
no where
safe to go.

White light eyes
punctuate
the parking space
where I park
at work.

A walking wreck
and I suspect
more than imperfect,
but still a decent
specimen
for the nightmare men
to come collecting.

Caffeine and confusion,
with sleep deprived
anxiety that I
cannot escape.

Tension in my tense chest.
My breath is hard
there is a heaviness
to this oxygen
I keep trying to breath in.

**** it must be poison.
Are there hitmen
out there hidden
in the shadows.
I get home
and grasp my pillow,
place my panic stricken
head that is sweating
face down.

A scream swells
but comes out
a muffled sound.
I don’t like this
creepy nighttime town.

Maybe a little rest,
to cease this
anxious
consciousness
and feel refreshed.

Maybe, just a nap
and I will get back
to my saner self.

But, If I fall asleep
something might get me.
Can paranoia **** you?
Most definitely.

Maybe a drive
will calm my nerves?
Is that a creak
or broken clutch I heard
as my sleepy driving self
tries to swerve
and miss hitting
a black shadow?

In the news
emergency crews
cruise
away from the crash scene
where some dumb human being
ran off the road
and wrecked his car.
The vehicle was totaled
and the driver turned out
far worse than that.

Welcome to life’s
rented out property.
The entry fee
is completely free,
but the interest charge
is pretty **** hard
and you can’t get out
of this backyard
alive.

If you wrote a poem,
but your life feels grey,

your tired and frustrated
sitting here dismayed,

if you feel that you
are not that great,

just remember there are other writers
who didn’t write a single line today.

If you fed your dog and walked him
but right now, you are feeling lonesome,

if you’re here you probably know someone
that is lonely to
without a pet that loves them
like your pets do.

If your tired and need some rest
from the day’s work to achieve your best,

if you’re frustrated with your lack of success
and can’t find your drive and focus,

just remember tomorrow can be better.

You spent your cash
but sold out
and gave them what
they wanted.

You can bet your ***
it’s cold no doubt
and my soul is haunted.

Dear mother and father listen.
These government stooges
came to get them.
They blamed and hit her,
while they shot my little
baby brother;

But you do fine.
You stay in line,
work your shift.
You do your time.

Now your ends
are barely meeting,
while the strangers
you left seething
are hungry and screaming,
are crying and bleeding.

They were all needing
your assistance,
but you wouldn’t give them
a single glance or instance
of the compassion
they were missing.

So, now I cry
cause you won’t try
to improve this life.

It’s just a game to you.
The tv says get more stuff
so that is what you do.

She was a mess
but she unconsciously
proceeded
to pursue what
she believed was needed.

She was possessed
by a paranoid obsession
to find the people
and go get ’em
while she could.

So sick and disturbed,
cause all that she heard
was the sound of her demise
rolling thunder in the skies,
under angel’s demonic guise.

The medicine did not help it
the voice in her head
the pills could not squelch it
so, in stress she purged with *****
like a racing flaming comet
that came crashing in
crazy calamity.
No one now engages her insanity.

She is just a mess.