The questions
press deep in
to their depression.

Sees soft eyes
weeping,
with the secret
pains
they have been
keeping
within.

Breaths thinning
while others assume
they are grinning,
playing and winning
some modern
capitalistic game
of materiel gains,

but these humans
are feeling
deep pains.

So, I ask them
if they are okay?
Each one proffers
hollow smiles
hiding deeper griefs.
They remain silent
as if to speak the truth
would be their shame.

Some stay,
others leave
to wither more
each day,
whilst the rest
burn to ash
and blow away.

What drives you to hate
drives them to pain.

When compassion is
just a story
a mother
tells her
children
because life
presents
all evidence
to the contrary.

Man, it is scary.

What drives you to pain
drives some
to remain
vigilant and kind
guarding against
the influence
of malevolent minds.

Ice agents
cut up plastic water bottles
and destroy food
that was left for migrants.

Government officials
put young kids
in cages
while sending their parents
far away,
leaving them longing for a day
that may never come;

Meanwhile, there are people marching
in the name of love
while writers soar above
creating art
to open hearts,
emboldening
other humans
to be better.

She told me that
she flirted playfully,
inebriated,
eyelids heavy with sleep
from the drinks,
and the Benadryl
plus, the melatonin
that he gave her.

Then he laid her
gently down
while she barely stirred
and made no sounds
other than the shallow
breaths of slumber.

He took her pants,
slipped her underwear
to the side
so, he could slide
inside
while she slept.

I wept with rage
as tears threatened
to consume my face.

She continued the tale;
Told me of how when she awoke
she did not move
or speak up
cause she was afraid,
and because
she was used to
being used up
that way.

A thousand mile away
I heard her say
all those things.

Then she said
he was coming over again.
That he knew better now,
and he was her only friend.
I was crushed.

I felt I had abandoned her
when she needed
someone to talk to;

But we are long distances buddies.
There was no way
I could just up
and walk to
her house to hang out.

So, alone in a world made of
shadows that say they love her,
then hurt her
she pardons each assault
bares each ****** insult
and heads back in
to the lion’s den
to risk said pain
just to have a friend
who isn’t
a thousand miles away.

She wears no hair
but multi-colored
plumage
around her *******
and over her
womanhood.
A scaled tail
swings swiftly
back and forth
in the
sparkling infinite
whilst black bat
leathery wings
allow her
to slow the
inevitable
descent
into a
watery darkness.

The air becomes
a thick and
burning liquid
heavy with
ionic energy.

She moves fluidly
in this mercury
piercing
the puddle
with her
fast flicking finger.
Silver ripples
work their way
from within
to without.

A soft figure
falls in
the firmament,
till the ether
tightens around her
forming a bubble.

Oily rainbows
bend and swirl
in sick distortions
that are reflected
upon the slippery surface.

The black water below
cracks and separates
leaving her to face
another cosmic creature,
a hungry hole
vast and black.

A permeable chasm
of nothing
draws her
entire being
down into
the chaos.

Then she bends
with the fierce force
of gravity,
pulled and elongated
stretched, and separated,
screaming in agony
as she is shredded
faster then
the speed of light.

In this entropy
my dear dream
dies
a horrid death,
of meaninglessness.

He can’t sleep. He can’t speak. He just whistles. The wind works its way through his tight teenage lips, disrupting the subtly silent suburb. Frequencies fluctuate. In the distance a dog barks. Then another dog barks. The piercing sound of high pitched whistling doesn’t stop. Aside from his holey jeans, old flip flops, and smelly green shirt, whistling is all he has. The sound resonates with everything he is.

He whistles with the lost hope of love. There is a soft undertone of sorrow. His whistle is as beautiful as a piccolo. It is more fluid than a flute. Farther in the distance a mournful howl echoes in response to the whistle.

The night carries him onto a bus. One stranger stares scowling viciously.

Another strangers growls, “Shut the **** up.”

However, this pied piper cannot. He refuses to stop. The whistling continues.

        Up and down, it is a haunting sound. Fifteen minutes of whistling while the bus carries him home, to nowhere. Here there is an empty alleyway with a metal grate giving off waves of stray heat. He works his way to the one dumpster occasionally stocked with the days rotten left overs. To some the stench would turn their stomach, but to him it is sweet salvation.

An officers asks him to stop and show his I.D, to no avail. The request is repeated carrying a hint of arrogance and anger. Even so, the whistler is unable to stop. A hard hand grabs his wiry arms. They struggle, another officer joins the fray. Somewhere along the line a foot smashes against his ribs. He whistles for them to stop, pleading with his pursed lips. Steel toed shoes smash his gaunt face. The whistler finally stops.

The cops do not. Years’ worth of rage works itself out on the young man’s body. Inside his skull the whistling continues accompanied by a ringing. Pain singing and singeing his brain, leaves him breathless. This is nothing new. It is no worse than his history. The red welts, the black bruises, the damaged ear drums, and the broken larynx, all the scars from previous violence.

Violence meant to silence. Beatings that stole the words from his breaths. Speaking through the wind was all he had left. A secret language he kept to himself. The dead tell no tales. Instead the wind whistles back at a broken corpse.

This is not pain
nor is it a verse
made for complaints.
It is merely a moment,
set in refrain
that occasionally
echoes
inside of my brain.

Time to die,
let it go,
nothing matters
entropy grows,
moments pass
and will not
come back.

So, let the flesh
become itself,
let my consciousness
recede from want
and need,
let the rot seed
the world we see
and let me
finally, be free
eternally.

Exclaims the fool
please let me rest
in peace.

The code is
encrypted
in the concrete
that has been
stained
dried crimson.

All that was in them
leaking out and about
dripping deep
dna markers.

The secret harkens
back to
the history
that birthed you.

Each chain
like a strand in
lonely islands
drifting in an ocean
of strange history.

Each particle
plugged in
its proper place
to become
part of your face.
or another attribute
that is uniquely you.

To take away
that code
would unglue
the truth.

It would rescind
the parts that
grow and mend
allowing us
to break
and remake
again
and again.

The spiral
spins in,
around,
and under
your skin.

Atoms
to cells
tissues
to organs.

Though,
such wonders grow
grand and beautiful beings,
It is only of passing fancy.

Tomorrow
it might be
the poetry of
space that makes
my thoughts swim.

A ***** yellow tarp
tries to cover up
an old piano,
but the wind
exposes
little ornate roses
that someone left
to mourn
the player
who has
succumbed to death.

The ivory keys
are cracked
and caked
with a thin layer
of dust.

No one has touched
this once treasured
instrument
in over a year.

In silence
the ebony keys
plead
to be played
just one more time.

But no one cares enough
to clean and caress
the keys
with the love
that each of these
things deserve.

No one remains
who ever heard
the elderly lady
finger out
the old gospels
she played for her church

The wooden frame
breaks with the waste,
wanting the compassion
of music,
for someone to use it.

For the soft flesh
of the young grandson’s
bare chest
as he leaned in,
letting it feel
the wonderment
that radiated from him
as he sat in awe
of the majesty of it all.

But the player is dead,
and the little boy has moved on.

He will only recall
the grandeur of it all
in dreams and poetry.

I did not ask
for my eyes to burn,
to dry up and scratch
as I look at the back
of my eyelids.

I did not miss this
mystery
that sat before
the collapsing curtains,
as pink light poured
through the skin
to my pupil
causing a micro
cosmic dilation,
like a big bang
in my eyeballs
as my hazel
irises rushed away
from the growing
black blank space.

Then when I tried
to pull the lids up
I could hear
the sound of suction
and feel
the bruising ache
of a lifetime of
untreated eyestrain.

How the day hurt.
I have felt worse
but the confusion
came intruding
when I realized
that the clouds
were purple
and those skies
were not ones
my eyes
had ever beheld
before.

Crimson colored
grass like strands
stood tall and
then bent back,
swaying swiftly,
with a harsh clacking
and in their movement
I heard
mother nature laughing.

It was a bitter chuckle,
laced with pain and rage,
followed by the crackle
of lightning becoming
thunder.
White lines split
this strange reality
like cracks
in a broken glass
mirror.

No animals,
no barking dog,
no flying dove,
not even
a single bug.
I’d happily settle
for some human being
but there was no one.

My mouth was dry
and the air was heavy
forcing me
to work harder
than normal to breath.
It was thick with
an acrid saltiness.

I could not find
the right time,
and reason
seemed to
loosen its grip
upon my fatigued mind.

There was a perfume
of rot riding
the air
like a lost surfer,
caught and cracked
then left after that
to feed the fishes
down below.

If I was Alice
I would understand
that this was
the strange land
through the looking glass.

If I was Dorothy
I would make haste
to get home
off this yellow brick road,

but this is not
a fairy tale
that fosters
brighter futures.

This must be hell
or as close as one can get,
and I would like to forget
all of it.

But I cannot seem to recall
anything at all
before I opened my eyes.

The synapses are singed,
dead dendrites
no longer
come to life
with the chemical fire
of neurotransmitters.

Blood flow is
restricted
like it has been classified
by the FBI,
not even tiny particulates
can get through it,
all that is left
are clogged arteries
and a delicious
cheeseburger death.

The rich interwoven tapestry
that use to be me,
the strange tributaries
of plasma,
the slick switch board
that birthed
consciousness,
full bodied sensations
intertwined
with my complicated mind
making me
the cosmic being
that I am;

has slipped the restraints,
this thing lost its name
and now is labeled
Mr. Nobody,
the disconnected
butchered body
of broken flesh,
the rotting mess.

Call in the Doctor
causes the nurses all left.
Then from some
dark corner
bereft of breath
a shade stealing figure
mister death
comes to collect the debt
of life.

Pretty pink fingers
play the ivories
that speak to me.

They used to move
more than mere thoughts.
Now, they bend me
more generously
to old aching memories.

Soft concerto,
like the fluttering
of ornate
butterfly wings
going up,
up, up,
and away
to the blinding sun.

Till, the glare
of time
takes each chorus;

Till, the piano
loses all its keys,
and all those
lovely reminiscence
are locked
away from me
for eternity.

Goddess of ice and steel,
she laid there
and slumbers still.

No longer needed
to retain
the powerful sword
for the
once and future King.

She snoozes
At the bottom,
mud laden dress
cluttered about
her cold pale legs,
turning to tatters
while she remains
unaged.

Once there was
a shimmering blade
that made her great
while she waited.
Now there is nothing
but wet dreams
of wizards and kings
marking unconscious time’s
passing.

No purpose
is everlasting
though she may be.

They found that lady
a millennium
or more
after the great wars,
settled like sediment
on the lake bottom,
still sleeping
while they were draining it.

The killer in me
stared diligently
at the latest
human oddity.

Little man
suffering
the sickness
of addiction,
spitting
spastic rage
as his energy faded.

The anger gave way
to admitting the pain
of living
prevented him
from quitting
cause existing
just wasn't enough
to maintain
a healthy mental state.

This was said
in his own slurring way
but I must paraphrase
because
I was too distracted
by the way he lay
quivering.

Eyes dimming
but reflecting
a past worth inspecting,
one of parents rejecting
and hitting him,
of ****** abuse
at the whim
of some predatory kin.

But,
even at the edge
he was still scheming,
thinking, and dreaming
about the next fix,
the one that would
heal or dull this
bad moment
for a bit.

Until,
his last breath
noted
the time of death.

He had a name
but no one will
remember it,
and tomorrow
he will be
less than a blip
in the local obits.

Sometimes
these colors
overwhelm me.

Like Vincent I see
swirling streaks
of light that weeps,
crying out into
the night’s darker hues
for some sort of relief.

Sometimes the gravel grays
slip away
into a distant haze
as I turn my face
toward the
moist shimmering greens
that shuffle back in forth in the wind.
Their shades shifting slightly
as the sun’s
silver reflection
moves with them.

Red wet apples
with white insides
draw the drool
from my desire
as I devour
all the flavor
and juice
that I can savor.

On rainy days
I can view
the upside reality
of my world
slightly muted
and muddled
by ripples
from raindrops.

Occasionally, I dream
in black and white
but when I
get back to my life
that world is
still new and bright,
as long as I
take the time
to shift the perspectives
that shade my already
tinted tainted mind.

It took the
ancient yellow papyrus
and crumbled it into dust
costing us
the knowledge of
less familiar ages.

It erases
all the old angles
of ancient angels
that were painted
in sainted style
on chapel ceilings.

It saw small framed
dancing beauties
that grew up
and rounded out
shrivel
back in
bringing
sad tidings
of losses
soon to come,

and in the midst
of this movement,
no more tragic
for the transient
nature of all of it,

I let it linger,
just a little longer
as the last sandy bits
slip
from my fingertips;

See it fade
in the distant.
Until, it comes
to take me as well.

It is a convergence
of classical cords
and caffeine
along with
the depth
of another
writer
who inspires
dormant desires.

I let the breath
of silently whispered
syllables
simmer in
the ocean
of my unconscious,

as ivory keys
percussively
pound little wooden hammers
against vibrating strings.

I am searching,
seeking
the speaking
of some cosmic being
that lives in me.

The utterance of
unnatural inspiration,
the soul of creation,
not a god force
but chemical particles
dancing in a storm
of confusion.

Dissonance
and novelty
gift me
each word
and verse's length,
but beyond this
I am still searching.

Still searching
in hopes the heart
of art will find me
successively
each day.

I am playful,
but impatient
and facing
my impatience
is costly,
costing
time and
self-amusement
for general
****** damage.

A fun run
forgets the bits
that stick out.
So, I trip
over the rusted
metal crap that
is bent in
a worming fashion
trying to rise from
the blacktop,

things that were meant to
hold concrete
pieces in place
to face
and stop
cars from moving
too far in
to the building.

This protrusion sends
me tripping,
skin scraping
through thin pants,
bruising and bleeding
the knees I am needing
to keep on moving.

I'm up in an instant
limping like an old man
with stiff arthritic legs.

Whether we
once plump
and juicy fruits
wither on the vine
like grapes to raisin
or rise in
comparison
to the splendor
of the morning
horizon,
that lovely light
which beckons
moon burnt hearts
to brighter days?

Whether we let our gaze
consume the days,
feeling warm tidings
of flesh rising
to potential fullness
instead of previous flattened
passions?

Whether we
live or die
matters not
to the celestial bodies
that paint
the infinite night sky.

In fact, somedays
when my mood sways
to darker ways
it matters not one bit
if all the wit
of humanity
just slips
into the dark abyss.

She is a foreign delicacy,
delicious mind
I find
in lines of poetry.

A definite reality,
but I imagine she
scribbles out verses
veraciously,

places each of these
in this internet society,
exchanging altered perceptions
for artificial digital connections;

Full fruit flesh
rich with juicy wetness,
deep thoughts
of deliciousness
as I wonder
about the wonder
of such a creative being.

The plate is mine,
a porcelain palate
open to dine
on one delicate
verb at a time.

To dance and unwind
in the way the words
unroll themselves,
unthreaded yarn
ready to re-roll
and then unfold
once more.

I am a friendly
interloper
there
where
I go to explore
weird worlds
I have never seen before,

and this is
a rough draft
of gratitude
to that fact.

The sun brings
harsh rays
of today's
heated frustration,
hot footed
to the point
of burnt and flaking
skin,

dehydrated
to the point
of pale pallor,
a practically porcelain
face guarded by
the scratchy hay hat.

Dry desert madness
makes your mind
forget itself
as well as
all previous times.

No name,
no camel,
no water
only the illusion
of an oasis
waiting a thousand steps
outside of
each step
you take.

It shimmers
and fades,
moving in time
pressing itself
against the horizon
as you pursue
the fantasy
of what you would do
with all that water.

Drawn on
as the lie
overcomes your
hazy mind,

"Just one more step,

jes one more step,

jes one mer step,

jes one mer...."

till your body forgets
how to take
another step
and your falling,
sleeping as the wind sweeps
sheets of sand
above your body
where no will
ever find you.

On the level
the devil
is holding fast
to the last
of his
disciples who insist
he is just
the coolest
rebel
to ever exist.

As hard as it sounds
when I push down
on the purple flesh
that presses up
I cannot stop
from wincing
just a bit,
of pursing my lips
in pain.

Though I try
to resist
the urge
to push it
I keep playing
with the parts
that hurt the most.

Just like how
I used to
come running
to you
when you needed
a shoulder
to collapse on.

When the ones
you loved were gone,
I would skip
happily, along
just long enough
for you to move on
to the next abusive
**** who would
use ya.

You hurt me,
but I kept
coming back gratefully
ready to be wounded again
and again
in the zone of the friend
cause I must of enjoyed
the hurting.

I say nothing is heavier
then it’s fifteen to ten
pounds,
as I stuff it in
a backpack
for carrying
to stare at the air
of deep despair
there in.

Photo after photo
clicking and clacking
with predatory pain
that is ready to claim
my comfort,
ready to strain
this tired brain
with the terror
of its truths.

After days
of lugging it around
I have found
the one thing heavier
is the horror
of enlightenment
that resides
behind the page.

The way
it burrows
within
my skin
to the source
of my emotions
and makes me feel
something more
for the suffering
children
who are starving,
the poverty stricken
oppressed by
wars of hate, and greed,
wars that partially stem
from various religions.

He is a stark
shadow stag
that stands
with a regal glare,
wearing red shades
of wet matted hair.

Heart broken
beating ventricle
bleeding
from the pleading eyes
that soften
from the loss of
blood.

Looking back
at the last path
this tall stag
left
finds impermanent
imprints
that led
the hunters
to him.

Like those tracks
the memory of the stag
is only passing,
like this poem
only lasting
for a flickering moment
in space and time.

The light shines in
through the window,
brightens up
the blue smoke,

and all I know
is a good ****
makes
me feel
less broke.

Spent six days
just staring
at nothing,
don't feel like moving
cause I'm despairing,
paring my pain
with some
***** and a joint.

I feel like ****
and smell
just like
I took a bath in it.

My specter like
reflection
is closer to perfection
then my
real life complexion,

And the point that
I'm making
is non-existent
just like my hope
for the next day is.

I don't care
if I burn
my brain out.

Even if
the pain comes
blaring in,
I’ll just block it out again
with slick distractions,
with the sick actions
of stimulant satisfaction.

Till, the fog
comes rolling back in,
leaving me drowning
in the sea of feelings
that requires
something stronger
to light the fire
that turns
the memories it burns
into ashes.

Come on
Aquaman
and save me from
the American
super villain
we call the president,
because I am
drowning in
his *******
and sic sentiments.

Come back
Star Trek
cause I need to
return to
a more hopeful age.

Days where we had
open spaces
to play
and an infinite
realm of
possibilities,
all those
future realities
to dream about.

Now the limited
have taken
all the vacant
timelines
collapsing them
into mine,
where greater minds
are met with
disdain,
where people trust
the greedy and vain.

All my sci-fi
daydreams
for a better life
have become
a painful lie.

What is truth to this
stranger?

Winded widow
who walks past
shaded windows
where loved one
play out the day
in a familial way
while his pain
pulls him
in
other directions
like some
medieval
torture.

Emotional upheaval
as he struggles to
remember and forget
in the same instance.

Sorrowful
remembrances
causes
slight pauses
in his breath
and occasional
stares where
there is nothing left.

A poorly painted
green brick building,
intrudes
with its rude
presence
in a place
where he fails
to stop reflecting
causing a close
personal inspection
with his whole face.

Light green flakes
scrape
his stubble covered skin
forcing him
to be present again
and the dull ache
from his mistake
is something
he appreciates
because
he isn't forced to
recall what he’s been through
when he is dealing
with his newly chipped tooth
and ****** busted nose.

I got this addiction,
to slight degrees
of self-improvement
fantasies.

I got a bad habit
of trying to be
the guy people think
is a super hero.

When others rabbit,
I take their pain
and grab it
till it scorches me
to prove something
is good about
my humanity.

Sometimes
I try to make
the people
who are full
of hate
and suffering
see the shimmering
beauty
of what
runs through us all
unevenly,
the artistry
of evolution
and poetry.

It pushes me
out from the corners
of complacency
were most would
rest easily.

But it also spoils me,
rotting my ability
to achieve
any normalcy.

So, I am
a human being
apart
from most other
**** sapiens
and while I am
trying to save them
I am also trying to
escape them.

Life sounds of
strange percussion,
like the beats
and breaths
arrested
by the stress
invested
in your flesh.

Pressure
built up
by a system
that doesn’t give
any *****
for humans
with less than
a couple million
in foreign
assets
and more
in family trusts
and corporate
investments.

Sometimes
I seek the
cessation
of painful
impressions,
but to exist
and to listen
is to hear
the procession
of pain’s movement
pushing on
into a song
of humanity’s
progression.

Don’t give me
your troubles
cause I got
my own.

Don’t give me
your reasons
when mine
have all gone.

Don’t feed me
no lines
about the divine.
I don’t need a god
and you won’t
change my mind.

There’s food in the kitchen.
The refrigerators humming
while the clock
keeps on ticking.
I got plenty to eat.
No one is starving here.
The heat is still running.
I won’t freeze tonight
so why then when I wake up
do my dreams make me
cry?

Most of my friends
are living
though a few
have moved on,
same can be said
about my family
except for the dead.

My car breaks down
every month
or every other,
and I can’t afford
to purchase another.
My job is forty-five
miles up the highway
so occasionally
I must stay with a friend
just to make it in
for my three to eleven
shift.

Got no woman yet,
and no good prospects
but I got lots to read
and tv shows to see
on my computer screen.

My health is decent.
My physique is ok
and as far as I can tell
tomorrow that won’t change,
so why is there something
that aches on the inside
and why when its quiet
do I have to try
not to cry?

You strut
and cluck
like a grown up
chicken,

wine and moan
like something
is missing,

get ******
because
I keep dismissing
your unwanted
attention,

think your
some bad ***
spy
on a super-secret
mission,
but in the end
you'll get
no admission
to my inner dimension
because
you are not worth
the spit
I use
to shine
my shoes.

You say
I neglect
the respect
that
your owed,

but you’re not
so just stop
cause I won't
do what
I'm told.

You may be proud,
but I'm not cowed
just cause you
shout that loud,

and the truth
that I gleam
from the way
that you scream
is that you’re not
what you wanted to be.

Your more like me
it seams
just struggling to be
heard and seen
on the same city streets.

The conclusion
I come to
is the same one
you run from,

we are all just
human beings.

Please let this
little lullaby
get you by
tonight.

The stars still shine
but behind your
blackened eyes
and bruised skin
I can see
my spirit's kin,
secret shadow
still weeping.

More than words,
no less than
actions
are needed to restore
all that was lost
but somethings
can never
be recovered
anymore.

I'll say goodbye,
take this life,
and let it slide
like the gambler
that I am.
I'll roll the dice
and let ride.

The flowery fruit fell
into the briny blue
sea froth,
and saw the tides
pull it farther from
the tree on the cliff
that was once
its home.

There it went
recently wind swept
into the red depths
that swelled
and dwelled
on the edge of
some underwater
coral bed.

But there were
little clown fish
that swam by
and nibbled a bit,
there was
soft tangles of seaweed
that occasionally
stalled the trip,
and above there was
a shimmering spectacle
of light bent
but still coming in.

I to
was once
a sweet fruit
born of beauty's
looming sorrow,
not living for today's harvest
but grieving
for the thieving
loss of all
my tomorrows.

Until,
I forgot about the light.
Then all my fears came clear
and consumed my
sea faring soul.

The streets are empty.
Yellow lines
run from
the horizon
as I ride them
to the end.

The houses
are boarded up.
Hordes of home maker
won’t wake up.
Soccer moms
won’t be
driving on,
because its all gone.

Glass windows
are shattered
with strange webbed cracks.
There are no spiders
to climb them
just long lines
of silence.

I can find this
lack of violence
everywhere I look,
because all roads
lead to a state of
nothing hood.

Nothing is good,
but it isn’t bad either.

I used to be scared
of big fat spiders
but right now
I would be happy
to see
any non-plant living thing.

There aren’t even any dogs
left barking at me
while I move.

Its just miles
of mind numbing
loneliness
and an eternity
of time
to be consumed
by many mad
states of
my fragile mind.

The stars flare and then unwind
Like bits and pieces silky twine
They disconnect from the heavens
And stray so far from my mind

The salt water burns
As it bubbles boils and churns
Rapidly descending as
It moves from turn to turn

The dirt writhes beneath my feet
Sand and mud are consumed
In agonizing defeat
Thus it weeps as it recedes
From the burning trees and their leaves

The fire flows like lava streams
Embracing the water that it turns to steam
It shifts and cools until it’s solid
And leaves its power yet unseen

Mankind stands amongst it all
Arrogantly thinking they know it all
Never stopping to realize
How easy it would be to fall

My mind races
With all these thing
The immortal elements
And human beings

As I cycle through my thoughts
Remembering the lesson that were taught
I bow my head slightly in wonder and awe
At the beauty that cannot be bought.

The romanticist dead at twenty six
His obituary reads that this is it
Love is dead and sorely missed
But he wont play the lover fool
Never again will he be dismissed
Just for the dream of love and kisses
The poet dead at twenty seven
His words are the closest he ever got to heaven
those purple prose are now at peace
Now that the poet is finally deceased
The dreamer dead at twenty eight
I guess he just couldnt wait
For the world to catch up to him
And now there is no one left to remember him
The nice guy dead at twenty nine
But none one care cause it was his time
He left the world no worse or better
So all that died was a state of mind
The **** is dead as seventy two
Barely even made it through
He lost his heart hopes and dreams
So the world just made him bitter and mean
From romanticist, and poet, to hopeless dreamer
Life taught him to be that much meaner
A lesson learned that deeply burns
Not every lover gets his turn
Not ever poet writes his word
Not ever dreamer is seen and heard
And not every nice guys gets what he deserves

The fire starts quietly enough
Burning from some old underbrush
Catching some old dry wood
I sit there watching thinking to myself good
The dry wood crackles
Sounding almost like a madman’s cackle
And the flame begin
To ascend
Even quicker
Engulfing the house in even thicker
Clouds of noxious smoke
The wind blows my way and I choke
Even so I laugh inside
Giddy with excitement
I watch my childhood home fall
And never once think to call
Anyone for help at all
I just sit back with a smile
Enjoying the scene
Thinking all the while
This is such a scream
Deep inside I yearn
To stop it all
But instead I let it burn
And watch it fall

There is poetry in motion
Life is like the ripples in the ocean
They start small and spread wide
One small action can change so many lives
One ripple can intertwine
Your ripple can affect mine
There are so many ripples across the water
That you might as well not bother
To keep track of all of them
Just think on this time and again
The smallest thing you say or do
Can change the world when the ripple is through

I watched her and though it seemed
I was so despaired to remain unseen
She stood there on the starboard deck
Her brow furrowed in retrospect

I thought to break the silence with a poem
Approach this lady with words a flowing
But neither my heart nor mind could conceive
Of words that she could honestly receive

There I stood in silence afraid
Of taking a chance or making a mistake
She turned almost as if she was a ghost
Gliding across the deck past my post

But as she passed with her dark eyes
I found I was suddenly surprised
By the girl with dark blond hair
Like a specter she vanished in to thin air

The boat trembled violently
And sent me overboard flying
Deep into the salty brine
To drown in the depth of my mind

Tossed across the water rough
Beaten and broken like fragile stuff
My bones cracked beneath the force from
The thrashing water and fierce storm

Yet as I fell deeper and deeper into the storm
Though my body grew weak my heart felt warm
A hand caressed my battered and bruised skin
Sweet sympathies from a lover and a friend

I saw her deep dark eyes
A mystery I wondered how could she fly
She whispered into my ears
My dear beloved forget your fears

Thus I sank deep into the sea
Yet while I fell she comforted me

It begins with the hunger
A deep and painful feeling
Consumes his entire being
And leaves him weak and reeling

The need drives him to attack
A nibble here or just a snack
He waits in the alleyways  
To dine on one who's lost their way

The primal urges rise from within
The darkest hunger consumes him
And in this moment of passion
He is transformed into a wolf of action

His hands extend twisting to and fro
His eyes bulge and neck lays exposed
Body quivering with pain and anticipation
As he begins his dark transformation

The flesh reveal itself as it tears and stretches
Hand ripping across his face ripping and scratching
The fur forces itself out of his chest
As his screams become howls of agony

Finally his leg bend and crack
He is finished and ready to track
The hunter is finally unleashed
Beware of the darkness  fear the beast

Regrets

I didn't seem quite right

I though I should have known

After that big fight

She went home all alone

He hurt her with his word

And slapped her in the face

Still she turned the other cheek

Ignoring the disgrace

Her smile simply melted

And faded in the wind

As he took his fist to her face again

I wish that could change it

if I had a second chance

I'd take that ******* *****

And staple it to his pants

But things don't alway work out

The way that we would like

She went home that night early

And took both of their lives

Beyond the days and past the nights
Where shadows lay just out of sight
We walk the planes that they call dreams
And barely find our way back it seams
Our pictures tell of something more
A story that was told before
But in our heart we tell it again
Dreams are our truest friends

This is it I hear her scream
As I weep and dream sweet dreams
I've had it with your whiny ways
Listen up now or else you'll pay
I can not hear her nor do I try
I just curl up and try and hide
If you don't come out I'll tan your hide
Keep this up and your going to die
Still I conceal myself
Cornered in this shadowy shelf
Praying that the sun will come
Before I have to go on the run
She searches through each room
And as each moment pass I feel my doom
Edging closer and closer by the minute
If death was a boat I'd jump right in it
Still I hide weep and cry
And in these shadows I pray to die
Better to feel nothing at all
Then her fist crunched in a ball

One door away from heaven,
One step closer to the edge
A shot gun at seven eleven
Stepping over the ledge
Two kids looking for a quick ride
Into the pits of hell
From their forsaken lives
Needles didn't work
Pills didn't get the job done
So, they took stroll
With their favorite gun
Two second left
Till the end of time
Teller goes for the gun
To blow their mind
Two young punks barely even flinch
Finally getting what they wanted
Was a cinch

I am not depressed,
barely dressed
in a long shirt
and dark blue sweats.

I just want to sleep,
let me be
free
from your
wanna motivate me
society.

I’m not complaining
cause even though
it is really raining
and my room
doesn’t have much heat,
I got more than
I need to eat.

I just can’t seem
to gleam
any energy.

Generally,
I am a much better
version you see,
but this week
I think
I just need
a vacation
from that
urgency,

so, I am going to sleep.

Please do not wake me.

She is dangerous
with the deepest
conceit,
smiling naughtily
in my dreams,
as she laughs
“I would ****
with me
if I were you.”

I agree.
Chasing her rainbow dress
across the cold froth
that rushes the sandy beach,
longing for the treasure
that lies somewhere underneath
her pink *******
that the wind keeps
flashing me.

There she sits in
a cement structure
that is
scarred by the torture
of poverty
and mother nature.

Her deep brown eyes
stare from a
broken glass window,
pondering
the growling
disposition
of her stomach.

Till, it becomes
just some noise
she forgets to hear,
and the feeling
becomes
some numb
buzzzzzzzz
in the back ground
of her exhausting
existence.

She is a still specter,
a powerful presence
in a place I have never seen,
memorialized for my
consumer eyes
by a photographer.

Hopeful humanist,
Howard G. Buffet
presents this
stark truth to me
in a photo reality.

So, all this fluff poetry
is an artistic assumption.
What gumption
I have to put words
to a world that
I have never been to,
seeing the starving children
while I am stuffing
my comfortable face.

She is symbolic of
human beauty and grace
in times of struggle
while I am a product
of comfort, excess, and human waste.

How do these
two extremes
exist
in the same
time?