Do not use a coffin
to bury me;
Black and bruised,
torn up, cracked ribs,
busted jaw, broken hips,
****** lips,
with seizure fits
cause this fool
felt love
cause this tool
let himself get used;
Should’ve gotten *****
cause that's a better hang over
then when you
get the never been blues.

I serve no master
other than my desire
to be better
then the last *******
that bashed her
heart into a
steel plated
silver painted
**** spike
of violence
and spite.

The night is lonely
stinging me
with all of its
silent beauty.

Seems like
the stars are
predators
stalking me
in this city,
this savanna of
stone and concrete.

I look at
all these
little beasts,
scrambling mammals
who are stressing,
dressing
anxiously,
trying to impress
all those
other oppressed
consumers.

I look at
the glimmering pond
then on
to the whining blond
who is carrying on
like a spoiled diva
ruining my once pleasant
silent evening.

I listen to
the rustle of
shuffling leaves
on those
old oak trees.
I stand quietly
in deep shadows
and listen to
the sounds
that you forgot.

Night birds chirping,
skittering squirrels,
dogs barking,
almost drowned out
by the loud cars honking
parking right up on the curb.

Then it hit,
silver point
bombastic
metal
piercing
my back
till I faded to black.

Thirty something and I'm
living it up,
got a fat belly
with pink fluff
cause I'm a Jigglypuff,
playing hard like
its Pokemon go,
but the fact is
I never practice
and I don't even
like that show.

I was better in my twenties
had the moves like
Crocodile Dundee.
Even so
I never made it
in the movies.
I wasn’t as funny,
and I’ve never been
very thin
or stunning.

Maybe I should go back
to my teen years
back when freshmen
called me their senior
but those were the days
with the most tears.

In truth
there’s no reason to
entertain
going back to
my youth
cause now is better
then it ever was.

Time takes
this pain
and replaces
it with an anger
that maims,
a mood that blames
you
for the weird thing you do.

Never been
more than friends,
but I was hoping
you would dump
those violent
cheating men.

You spent hours
telling me
all about their
cruelty.
How they make you
wonder why
you attract
those kind of guys,
the ones who lie
and lay hands on you.

Meanwhile,
I stop by
when you call me.
When I hear you cry
I play the nice guy
comfort and cradle
the cracked heart,
till you are able
to walk yourself
right on to the next
abusive ex.

Each time
I find my mind
darkened by
thoughts of
self-hate
wondering how bad
I must be
for you to see
sociopathic
sexist
violent men
as a better and
more attractive
alternative then me.

So, I try to move on
until you come along,
say that you miss me
ask me to go to the movies,
and I just jump
right back in.

It is the face of a wraith,    
skin sagging,
flesh falling,
goosebumps crawling
with supernatural
sorrow and fatigue.

Bone thin,
Sobbing,
ancient pains
rising
from some
inner lining
of desperate
darkness.

Living corpse
in constant pain,
choppy movements
of echoed intent,
only a shadow
of the former
person.

Drawn in
an anorexic
frame
this specter
reigns
where once
a full bodied
figure
danced
in joy.

Nervous glances
fearing
they might catch this
emotional leprosy.
Society let her be,
slowly rotting
from the inside out.
Till she was hollowed.
Till even razor blades
could not scrape away
the suffering stain
and pain
of a relentless
existence.

The chorus
will ignore us.
The choir
does not inspire
only praises
the holy figures
it raises
from the dead.

These flapping feathers
of holy white
that flutter up
into the night sky
carrying those
who were born
to die;

They only do well
in our fictional hell.
They only excel
when our ignorance swells
as fools falter
at the mouth of the cave
where all other innocents dwell,
waiting to be saved
by the heroes we made;

But it has been years
since I lived that way,
walking away from the shade
those incredulous leaders made.

It is lonely to seek reality
when everyone else
is ok with an ancient fantasy.

So, I pack my knapsack
hit the railroad tracks
and head back in to the black
where all traveler eventually go
cause as far as I know
there is no Heavenly place
waiting for me at the end
of this waste of space
we call the human race.

I find your sin
deeply embedded in
soft silk stiches that you threaded,
the dark dyed lines you used
to imbue your touch
with more than the magic of
love and lust,
attaching me to the dangerous
state of us.

A practiced deceptionist you are,
spinning illusions with your webs of words,

oh deceiver, oh wicked liar
I bind your mouth with twine and wire
to trap your voice inside your mind
but still become ******* in your webbing.

Tenuously tangled and mangled,
I manage to unthread from you
to find a new avenue to the truth,
but just as I am about to unwind
I find I am inclined to stay entwined
with the very vines I used to bind you
because I am not ready to lose
the one who misled my lately leaded heart.

Her heart breaks
in random shapes,
shattered ventricles,
busted atrium,
and like humpty dumpty
we can’t ever put them
back together again.

Tiny dots,
little moving
people;

They only stop
when it is
their time
to drop dead.

Not set in stone,
not gonna
finally go home,
just becoming dust.

I touch the dirt
let the earth
run through
my fingers
and down to
the ground.

I know that
this stuff
was once
star dust,
as was I,
that every particle
that plays a part
in my being
was once the heart
of some cosmic furnace
burning, exploding
and finally coming
down here
to become me.

Isn’t that neat.

I may be a nice guy
but if you crack
my glass demeanor
I get much meaner.

One more heartache
to remind me
that I got a lifetime of love
making me feel worthless
but I just take that *******
to the gym and use it.

Given enough room
I become a ****** bloom,
cause I am a tasty morsel of flesh
that lets all whom I love
gnaw me to death.

It is a ****** battlefield
that does not yield
any healthy crops
just plants dark thoughts;
Seeding seething pain.

It is a forgotten rocky road
that turns and moves
random passerby
towards a side track
in their passing lives.

A place where
rocks eroded
and turned stone
into a strange
elongated face,
one that stares out at
the ocean and hills
that rise up around it.

I can imagine
how many broken hearts
were lost
to the salty ocean froth
and how many got brief relief
from seeing those Redwood trees
gathering like a loving family
on a picnic retreat.

How many caved and gave into
the cold foam-covered shore,
while others went on to explore more,
as their sorrows slowly lessened?

How many paths merged then diverged
as that strange stone sentinel observed
parallel worlds?

In one spot the writer takes
his rejection and heartache
then swims as far as he can
till he is too exhausted
to make it back to the shore.

On another path
he laughs.
His pain withering
as anger takes its place.
He chases that day’s hurt
with hard shots of fitness, art,
and self-education.

Just above the water she stands on a cliff,
concealing those feelings, she can’t deal with.
Then stepping off she drops to the bottom of it.
Despite the softness of wet sands
she does not rise to stand
only lays down as waves drown
her broken corpse.

On another road
she drives slow.
Then sits and waits
for the rain to abate,
stewing in depression and rage.
She talks to the man who was hurting her,
gives him what for,
and a little more.
Then heads home.
The burden not completely lifted
but the weight lightened
for those fleeting minutes.

The stone face does not change
merely wears a silent clown's frown
of curiosity
as it witnesses all these
shifting realities
of humanity.

She is encased in a stone cold
hard snow
prison,
not unwilling
but unable to see
any reality
where life can be better
then the blank canvass
of agony and suffering.

Each day an unrelenting onslaught
of recurring nightmares
that point to a future
with very few
points of light
breaking through.

Razor sharp
scar tissue heart
that will not heal
properly;

She speaks poetically,
bends my heart
in empathy
edging me to tears
when she recites
the past prose
of her traumatized life.

No god,
no meaning,
no reason,
explaining
to loved ones
who cannot comprehend
that this busted up brain
will not find a way to mend,
nor make truths more comforting.

It is not selfish
because it does not seek this
in search of greed or gain,
just pushes on in hopes
of the cessation of pain.

I listen intently,
hear her honesty
whisper softly
that I am here
when you need me.

But her pain breaks me
sees stitches from similar
spirit cutting surgeries
splits my satin skin
as all my stuffing
spills out again.

I know those doubts
how the road goes on
for far too long
into the dullest days,

cement to concrete
cracked and gaping
causing a lot of vibrating,
taking all the serenity
I struggled to attain.

Dusk advances
into to darkness
and the phoenix fire
of light that inspires
other people
never rises
to her skies
never deigns
to brighten her life.

In love we see
better days ahead,
but in physical
and emotional fatigue
all she sees
is late night repeats,
reruns
of relationship
conspiracies
with misery
and misery
and misery.

I offer my love
hoping that
I am not intruding
where my feelings
are not welcome.

I offer her my love
hoping that
it does not hinder
her trust
and she opens up
as much
as she needs to.

I give her my ear
and hope
that my voices
is enough
to lure her away
from the ledge
just one more day,
then one more day,
then one more day.

Twisting on a line of indecision
swept up in a breeze of emotion
little lilies dance
moving in swirling circles
like small yellow petal children.

Awaiting the winds lulls,
the breeze drops
their lover’s porcelain heart

They sink to sit and catch
the red glass figurine
saving it from the shattering
with their soft yellow bodies.

Little petals bruise themselves
to save the remnants
of the heart’s ability
to be open to the bounty
of future love.

You break me beautifully
split the fabricated flesh
that once felt like silk
under your soft fingers.

Your sorrow
speaks spells
of pain
into my being.

Worried heart
lead heavy
with a wooden levy
that is ready to break,
flood everywhere,
and take
all that you have.

Your anxiety
is a clouded
day dulled
by an ache
that takes
your breaths
and replaces them
with sobbing.

Heart throbbing
with insecurity
while I long
to leap in
like twenty-two
supermen
and save your days
with brave displays
of sincere caring.

Hundreds of miles,
too many moments away,
so I cannot rush
to your side,
hold you tight,
and envelope your pain
in my love,
smothering each stressful second
with the tenderest of affection.

All I have is my super ear
and powerful heart
to listen and hear
what you need to share
whilst whispering softly
“I am still here.”

Silver shade
bead wearing
barbie figure
mardi gra queen
makes me sing
all jazzy
till I am dizzy.

Short locks
smiling
flower wreath
falling down
around
and underneath
her feminine curves.

Two long drinks
sipped methodically
cause this is
definitely
serious business.

The music
bounces
as strangers
pass by
drunk and high.
She gives them
a predator smile.

A mysterious mask
holds back
the devilish
gleam
of dangerous things
because this woman
is the spider queen.

and if you are not careful
she will take a bite
out of you.

Those broken bodies
are fractured forms
fallen from
the ravages of war.

Former friends
fermented in
the vinegar
of vile violence.

Their depravity depends
on the whims
of more wicked men
and women
who spend
lives like bitcoin.

She sits stressing,
depression pressing
sharp silver metal
into her skin,

leaves adults stuttering
and wondering
what is so wrong with her,
while looking down with
disappointment.

How strangely that lately
they forget
how intense
it felt
when they were kids.

Its like intentional amnesia
as they try to numb
any primal passions,
dulling their once
delinquent delights,
quelling the yelling curiosity
in favor of
a less passionate
drunken love.

But she has not yet succumbed
to that humdrum
self-inflicted
emotional wound
that is draining
yellow liquid,
oozing
that which is
conflicted
that which
we should be using
to understand
everyone else.

Teenage heartaches
and high school drama,
friendships lost
or changed
drastically,
with all the pain
it leaves,
she is set in
an ocean of confusion.

So, at night she lays her face
in a salt wet pillow case
as she cries
herself to sleep,
instead of ending her week
at the bar down the street
like her parents do
just to get through
their working blues.

Watching videos
from youtube
and reading poetry books,
she still dreams of more,
uses her art to explore
hopes and dreams,
while her parents seem
to exist hopelessly.

When the silence comes
she sits disquieted
as dark thoughts
settle like sandy sediment,
then float up
like all that flotsam
from the wreckage
of her young
sea sailing heart.

Her parent don’t
have a clue
how much she is going through
and sometimes
she doesn’t believe
that they even try to.

I reserve the right
to observe the birds
at night
who perturbed
take flight
to find
a better place
to wait and play
safely living
their life
each proceeding
day.

Dangerous dragon eyes
burn the stars
and scorch the skies
as the warrior lets
her silver blades fly,

Bronze skin
battle maiden,
******* in chainmail,
spear and shield
on her back
as she tracks
the beasts
who attacked
random villages.

Like a Valkyrie
she walked past me
with death on her breath.
All power and confidence,
she passes on to face this
monster in the darkness.

She moved like
a ballet dancer
rushing in
and striking him
in the place where
his scale skin was thin.
then rolled back
before the dragon’s attack.

Fire and fury
bare skin scorching
forcing her
to retreat
but only for
a solitary
second.

Claws cutting,
tail swinging,
scales scraping,
scratches stinging.

The ground
running
with the blood of
both combatants.

One arm
a ragged mess
of jagged flesh.

One dragon eye
destroyed while
sulphur and smoke
choked the breath
from her parched throat.

Long neck charging
as she parried
in a twirling fashion
letting the dragon’s head pass.

It moved quick
but she was faster
and matched that *******
primal fury.

Short silver
sharp dagger
nested itself
slightly above the neck
as the force of the animals
violent
movement
cut itself
making a long sick ****
as it lunged past fast
and finally fell
in defeat.

Would you meet me
on the astral plain,
still a poor projection
of the soul and flesh we claim,
sharing only a fraction
of our radiant selves.

See several shades
of black, blue, and grey
knowing that we are showing
similar bruising pains.

Aware that we walked
through separate plains
of searing flames
to make to this place.

Would you meet me
in some spectral place
to truly communicate,
to see starlight  
shimmering in your
very being.

If we both believed
that on some
sweltering summer’s eve
we would finally greet
each other at
heaven’s gate
would you make a date
to sit around and wait.

There is no need to sit
cause I don’t buy
into that *******
but it is nice to daydream
about fantastic
people and things.

Mirror mirror
on the wall
you make
my skin crawl;

Silvery ornate
outer edges
placed around
a pool of
serious reflection.

I face
the face
I long to erase,
slide my finger
along the cracks
that I made
in rage,
and let
the broken glass
scratch me back
as I streak it
with sloppy crimson lines.

Mirror mirror
on the wall
one more look
and I'll
make it fall
see my self
shattering to pieces
and hopefully
finally release this
sick beast
inside of me.

She is sacred,
but safe
from a distance.

I can admire
the form
I desire
and listen
to her stories
without risking
the sharp scythe
of rejection tonight.

I can share
the softened
version
of my
affections,
expose my
true self
and never fear
the loss of will
cause she is
a thousand miles away
and promised to another.

Daylight shades
paint the frames
and Instagram pages
with beautiful smiles
and short blond locks
that look out at
the world with
a certain
curiousness.
Snapshot moments
of social projections
pushed out onto
the internet
so strangers
can view
those small lies,
because
these pictures
do not know
or show
a quarter of
the truth.

Behind the
staged displays
of fun and cosplay
there are
dark shadows
with deep corners
where broken hearts
bleed clutching
their bruised wrists
and split lips.
Where blood drips
on the cracked tip
of the kitchen
counter top.

There are
repeated rapes,
cruelty and denial,
honesty rejected,
and despairing.
There is
a sense of
resignation
to not let this
invasion
define her life.

There is abandonment
from those who should have
safe guarded
her pulsar heart,
there is
injustice,
and while
the darkness
has not swallowed
her soul whole
yet,
she still finds time
to give light  
to a friend
who was trying to lend
a compassionate ear
to her.

These photos
do not dare
to chart the depths
seldom shared,
or explore more
then mere outward
pleasantries.

There is so much
left to see, hear,
and hold dear,
deep conversation,
neuroscience
and psychology
discussion
that are enlightening,

so much more
then mere flesh,
or hastened breathed
burnt by
desirous men
and their
unwanted intrusions.

There is dark art
and a heart yearning
for the burning
of an honest
and caring love,
one that runs
from safe fields
searching desperately
for the person they need
to protect
because to do otherwise
would destroy their life.

These photographs
are little lies
that we put out in the world,
smiles that hide
possible fast
or very slow
suicides,
especially if
there is
no one
ever around
to ask
“Are you ok?”
and if not
then to ask
“why?”

We are a chorus
of chaotic consumers
of materialistic addicts,
of capitalistic users.

We are violently virulent,
cashing checks
that are already spent.

We devour and destroy
to acquire
the new toy
or gadget we desire
to employ
for temporary amusement.

Then when someone
explains this,
claims it
can be better
we become bitter,
and break them
on the wheel of
social separation.

We consume and excrete
all the metal and plastic
crap that was manufactured
to satisfy this corporately
fractured life.

The room is
thick with
darkness,
black shadows
and less
blackness
permeate
everything.

Then the
fog falters
a little light
enters,
and I can see
two reclining chairs
shoulder to shoulder
with my sitting form.

I see the fuzzy floor
and barely perceptible
dresser doors
with a small tv
sitting strangely,
familiarity
edging me onto
anxiety.

I know this place.
In dread I turn to see
the shadowy ghost face
of someone I love
reaching out to touch me.

Her grip is fierce,
and I fall back
in fear and
an aching sorrow.

I wake to the morrow,
as morning tears
slip in drips
down to my
dry lips.
Facing the grief
and the shame
of seeing someone
I left alone in pain
who died
years ago.

Unconsciously
I write to me.

Ironically
the poetry
I give
to make others think
truly reflects
my deeper needs.

As I speak
eloquently
with grief,
recording
my own history
asking others,
to learn from
what they read,

I forget to
learn those
lessons to.

Until,
ghosts
emerge
as symbols
in my dreams,
lost figures
reaching out for me,
allowing me
to remember
what I forgot to
tell myself
as I was
reprimanding
all of you.

I am such a goof,
and it would be so funny
if it wasn’t such
an epic tragedy.

When I have time to think,
when the dark thoughts
are hailing me
like Starfleet academy
across the universe
of my undermine;

In the dark regions
of my dreams
where legions
of thought demons
come rumbling in,
there is a red wave,
a reservoir of pain
reserved for the perturbed
parts of my overactive brain.

When the melancholia music plays,
switch flipped to repeat
as I listen to the beat
of my heart’s history,

I remember all that
was given to me,
the bits I took for granite
chipped rocks eroded
connections no longer
able to be loaded
because they are just
echoes of binary encoded
in my overloaded
grief molded
dual lobed
computing *****.

I got a heart made for breaking,
viewing all that is breathtaking
with a thin smile
as my dream girl drives me wild.

Leather jacket bad ***
but not really as bad as
she claims.

Smoke in the wind
lips curving
till she is laughing
cause she likes
my joking disposition.

I got a heart for a stranger,
puts the whole ***** in danger
for a fantasy
that will never be.

For a dream,
I live dangerously.
Till my passions make me
try to break free
from my history
of bad endings.

A soft song
distracts.

The window fogs,
as white lights
fall away
running fast
as can be
on into
a sea
of infinity.

She yawns,
then fingers
a circle
into the glass
trying to
make time pass,
make her hours
move faster
then those
minute *******
that just drag on.

Dullness settles in.
Her mind wanders
slipping beyond
normal constraints.

A pew, pew, pew
of imaginary lasers
escape her
small lips
as she races
to escape this
boring moment.

Little blue eyes close,
and all those stars above
move light years closer,
as she sits
in the cockpit
of a little weaponless
space junker.

Two bogeys,
circle her ship,
but she ducks
and twirls
through the gap,
allowing the blasts
to blow up
passing meteorites
which shred the
metal plating
and pulsating
engines of her
impatient pursuers.

Now she is free
to explore infinity
with her
Soft body settled
deeply into
the comfort
of the old couch.

Eyes still closed.
Her mom
comes home,
kisses her
brave space traveler
on the forehead,
then carries
the tired wayfarer
off to bed.
A space where
dreams take
the young explorer
farther into
the star sparkling unknown.

Metal spirits,
sparkling sprites,
the glowing fae
light up the night.

Dancing twinkles
of fireflies
and pixie dust,
collect in the throat
of those who
get to close to
these magical beings.

An elder treeant
with sturdy wood,
watches elves dance
cause those ears
wiggle real good.

Heavy dragons’ scales
unbalance all
as werewolves
jump from a cliff
to free fall,
and vampires
turn to smoke
and float
off.

Skin-walkers,
and zombie dudes
keep on migrating
out of our view
cause though they
like brains
they know humans
are far more dangerous
then their dwindling crews.

It isn't a monster mash
more like
a mythic
mix up,
that gets up
to whatever it wants
in the magical forest
that it haunts.

I use to play
slow soft songs
to fall asleep
because anxiety
wouldn't let me
rest peacefully.

But now I
don't need
the music to sleep.

I just roll in
coming back
after eight hours
of working,
an hour and a half
of working out,
and two hours
driving.

Eyes ready to
roll up and retreat
as my feet
lose
socks and
black work shoes.

Everything
weighing
heavily
cause I am
exhausted
from fighting
life’s and gravity.

So, I let
the rest
take me
in silence.

I tried to capture something,
a sliver of my silver
unconscious stream
that is always running
underneath
and gathering
observations,
then making
strange poetic
declarations.

Driving I see
a slow descending
road of concrete
settle into
an enclosed
docking thing.
Only a brief glance
but I capture it
in my memory.
A handful of human beings
with all of their things,
including bags for sleeping
scattered in the back.
I imagine that
they are ***** and homeless,
partially hopeless
but I do not know this
for certain.
Like all other people
I make too many assumptions.
If I had the gumption
and time
I would walk down and find
the truths they hold
in their unique minds.

You do not know me
the child who waited
patiently,
for you to see
our share humanity.

Little circumspect
floating speck
swirling in
the chaos.

I proffered
the words of prophets,
not a religious sect
but the heart set
in seeing
all the souls
who were pleading
for a better world.

You do not know me,
and as I slowly
recede
into infinity
you still will not
realize
my true divinity.

Not your ancient
or brand new
Muslim or Hindu,
gods,
not Christianity,
but the soul
in service
of humanity.

Can you feel the piercing pull
as the projectile runs you through
spitting splatter art
across the stone hearth?

Can you see the shattered hearts,
wounds wrapped in cloth
unable to stem
the tides of blood
that won't stay within?

Can you dream of the darkness
that others endured,
the struggles they pushed through
as they interred
the ones they love?

Can you look a stranger
right in the eyes
and without lies
tell him or her
that you care
and that they are heard?

Can you be kind
one time,
then another,
then another
till compassion
becomes
the path
that you run
around and around
in an almost infinite
circle of intent
till you are buried
in the ground?

Can you be
a decent
human being,
please?

It is not my blood
that wets the tattered rags,
soft skin
slowly paling,
mother loudly wailing
waking anyone near
to the agony
that other mothers
come to fear.

It is not my family
shattered,
blood splattered
buried under
tons of rubble,
and lost to
man-made devastation.

It is not my neighborhood,
my hood is real good,
safe and clean
no one hears a scream
cause there are no
military bombings
breaking down everything.

But these are my tears,
this is my fear
to hear clear
the horrible pain
of those that
my leaders claim
deserve to be hurt.

It is not my country,
but they are all my people
and if I am a decent human being
then I must share these things
bare these thoughts
bring these words
so, all can see the cost
of inhumanity.

The winter wood
is cold and wet
stacked in the back
waiting for the day
we need to burn it.

The bare branches
are heavy with
white outlines,
those cold snow
brushstrokes.

Smoke stacks
cough up that
fire and ash.

No birds or squirrels
for weeks on end,
and I haven't
seen a single friend
for a couple of weeks
maybe this weekend
I'll head in
to town
to touch base with
all those I miss.

For now
I stare out
at this
frozen wasteland
and wonder how man
ever managed to make it
during colonial winters.

We live in comparison,

When I compare my self
to wealthy men,
I find my fortunes
sadly lacking.

But if I look back
at the shadows closing in
all that human suffering
all those souls living
without compassion,
the dark nights passing
every sad circumstance
every tragic dance
of death and gore
that came before;

If I am keeping score
of the ratio
of smiles to terrible tears,
of poor to prosperous years,
of those gone
and those family and friends
who are still here.

It is very clear
that I am doing **** fine.

There are sharp bits
of salted bitterness
bleeding,
knees scraped from
pleading
for someone to see
and believe
in the value
of what they’re are reading,
words which I wrote
with love,
the art I permitted
to be exhibited.

I want to be seen,
have my heart heard
in each word
I project,
open the wounds
I protect
and bleed art,
gift freely
that which
is the essence of me.

I know it is needy
to want to reach you
so, you can see me,

and here is
the Greek tragedy,
like Cassandra
the prophetess
I am doomed
to have no one
believe me.

Even though
I know
the value
of what I give freely
with love.

Witness
the witless
swimming in
the driest
wetness.

sinking in
solid ground,
making the loudest
silent sound,

master of mundane
wearing hats
to make hate
great again,

artists who perform
the opposite of
the art form
attempting to reform
that which needs
no rebirth
just the freedom to grow
in whatever direction
the art has earned,

metaphors
of madness
thinning
to fatness,
as I slurp up
all the sick stuff
humanity
has been brewing.

I do not have cancer
or malignant tumors,
causing me to double over
in irregular
bouts of agony.

I have a job
and make enough
to buy healthy food
and some other stuff.

Never been
sent to prison,
and I got
a decent
education.
Plus, I get
two weeks’ vacation.

I do not have to
pick up and walk to
somewhere
hundreds of
miles away
just to be safe
from some
sick warlord
or hateful horde
of horrible soldiers
who want to ****** me
and my family.

I may not be
super wealthy
but compared to
most of the people
in other countries
I’m living pretty large.

I am the fortunate one.

Nice to get your dreams
see ambitions fulfilled
be thrilled
by what you achieved.

So, you're finally
respected and
recognized,
literary dreams
realized
because
you inspire
the masses.
They talk about you
in college classes,
and strangers
ask you to sign
the books you write.

So, success
could be defined
by wealth acquired
by the things you desired
finally becoming
stationary place holders
in your household.

So, your health
and physique
finally match
the muscle mass
and bodyfat
percent that
you wanted.

All the hours
you put in
to getting
the great win,
and as you
look around
you will see
friends and family
growing old
and becoming deceased.

Was it worth it?

I break my devil
with heavy metal
and hard plates.

Take my pain
and step up,
down
then up
again
in reps.

Tight T
as wet
as me
soaking in
stinking sweat
as I struggle
to catch my breath.

This is
self-punishment
for my lack of
food discipline,
for my lack of strength
in pursuing
all the things
that make me
a better human being.

All the doubts,
all the rejections,
all the frustration,
I work them out
with a workout.

Which might mean
the only thing
I accomplish is
a better physique,
while never addressing
the underlying
issues,

but I feel sharper
after
the workout.

I feel calmer to.

So, I will push,
pull, press, step,
squat, bend,
row, jump,
run, lift
till others
sigh and try
to quit.

I will continue
with all of it,
and maybe get
to the other ****
later in the day.

This is no
canto,
merely
a morning
sundry.

It is
much ado
about
what
I force
myself
to work through.

I dub myself
the daily poet,
working through
the lack of muse
while I strive to
constantly improve.

Engaging in
new experiences,
even if
I fail
miserably
there is always
something there
to share.

This may not be
my best bit
of poetry
but, at least
I wrote something.

The flag flailed flawlessly
then fell flaccidly
under the bushy
grey brow like clouds.

Restless winds
settled in
to a plain old boring
temperate temperament.

Then the dull day
gave way
to much ado
as the clouds grew
dark and heavy with
evaporated wetness.

The calming clouds
could not contain
their weighted frame
anymore.

Soft trickles
turned to
a thick downpour
moistening
my dry skin
till I was soaking.

Thin T
sticking
awkwardly
to me,

but the water felt good,
so, I sat and basked in
the rushing rain
that was falling.
Till, the earth beneath me
began sinking
muddily.

Then, I sloshed
my soaked self-home
sheepishly
spreading all the muddy
mess around me.