It is a marvelous magic trick
when half the moon is gone
and the other half
just hangs up there
while I stare at it.

It was me
who longed to be
your budding love,
flowing flower
fast unfolding
to express the beauty
that was made for showing,

but you were
a wild one
wielding words
like weapons
slicing syllables,
with no eloquence.

More than anything
it was
the degrees
of indifference
that did the most
damage,

being ignored while
you pursued
other dudes
who abused you.

Instead of dragons,
you slew
the knight who
wanted to rescue you.

Now I long to
forget you,
the one who
murdered
my loving heart.

Busted lip,
broken socket
shoulder slips
out of it,
bleeding
and bruised
crusty scabs
will form soon.

I hope the
swelling
will recede
so when
I awake
from this sleep
I will be able to see.

Anger is all spent.
I purchased peace
with punching fists
and taking too many hits.

I walk out head held up,
at least until tomorrow
when all the adrenaline fades

The other guy
walks by
limping while
hanging on his
girlfriend's shoulder.

It is hard to explain
how the flower
was once the rain,
sunshine, and wet dirt
that stretches
across the earth.

How particles
that traveled
across vast distances
in space,
and sparse water droplets
along with nutrients
from the ground,
are utilized to create
the colors we see,
how they take what we exhale
and give us what we need
to breathe.

But it is so easy to see
the petals
or leaves
of varying colors
and the stems.

It is hard to imagine
the pollen
the tricks the bees
into pollinating
other plants.

But it easy
to understand
that to maintain
this land
we must be stewards
who care deeply
about the beauty
all around us,
instead of becoming
nature’s enemy
that destroys
all life in our
general vicinity.

I am the tired gypsy
who plays *****
tricks on thee,

the bloated king
of foolish games
who dances outside
in the rain,

the jumping fool
who was never cool
and never will be,

the lonely jester
who may pester
but promises
good humor,

the heartbroken poet,
pusher of prose,
arrows of words
pointed at your heart
to help us all heal,

the loyal knight,
lost samurai,
last willful warrior
ready to fall
not in battle
but in defeat
as I see this world
consume everything,

I am the ghost,
forgotten specter,
spirit inspector,
who was searching
for similar soul seekers.

I prefer the cool quiet darkness.
So, I ask this
of you
please close
the multi-colored curtains
that cause a
cloud of
swirling dust
to be summoned up
when they are moved,
after years of
negligence.

Summer's breath
is a fetid breeze
that leaves me
sweating grievously.

Dull, repetitive driving,
heat draining
all my mental energy
like a seasonal vampire
leaving me uninspired.

Enter the earthy aroma
of someone new,
a refreshing spring water
point of view
a friendly face
with feminine contours.

Though *** is not what matters,
she is novelty
in the form
of a human being.

This thick stultifying summer
becomes less of a ******
with the introduction of new variables
that pull me from
my old terrifying echoes.

A stranger with
unknown stories
emboldens
the previously bored me
to write great poetry again.

Is it to strive to be
Mr. Fitness,
to not be worthless
and work this
body into
some shape
that may inspire
some other dude
or attract
feminine views,
with workouts,
supplementation,
proper hydration,
and excellent nutrition?
Should I strive to be
Mr. Perfect?

Is it in the pursuit of
knowledge and wisdom,
constant reading
observing,
and listening
as I work to unravel
all that the world
has to offer,
whilst knowing
no matter what surface
I am showing
by growing such depth
there will still be
an infinity and eternity
of information
that eludes me?

Is it in the creation
of art
where I project
the heart
of all that I have seen
and felt
exposing my entire self
flaws and all
to the world
that does not
seem to care
one flit about
the **** I tout?

Is it in my relations,
how I interact,
how I treat
all whom I meet
striving to be kind
while I struggle to find
the balance that keeps me
from losing my mind?

Or is there no
purpose for me?

Early morning
gets me moving
rushing to get to
the gym
then work through
my afternoon
shift.

But a rattle in
rusted metal
is making me
stressed as can be.

Every noise
causes me
to catch my breath
and listen closely
while trying to avoid panicking.

My red rover road rage
dodge neon clinking
Is getting me thinking
about how much
will be enough to fix it.

Orange lines
interrupted
by gray road
charge forth
falling under
my crimson car
as I drive on.

Rusted metal parts
change color
then flake off.

The struts shudder
as they bounce over
decent sized bumps.

Like an old man
the grassland
changes color
from vibrant
to dry and dying.

Still I keep driving,
keep trying
to get to the same place
that I went to
yesterday
at the same pace.

Firstly, all I saw
is long flaming locks,
as I locked my lazar sights
on a woman tonight.

Then I moved in
with such a lack
of confidence
that even I
don’t know why
I bothered to try.

Secondly,
I observed,
overhearing
a fascinating
conversation.

Then,
despite the delight
and amazement
I did not
cave in
and go back walking
to satisfy
my guy
urges.

Instead,
I went home
and imagined
a more satisfying
conclusion.

In my what if world
we had a deep
and intriguing
conversation,
as she weighed in
on current issues
and then listened
to my perspective,
as we discussed
art and empathy.

In my what if world
she was as fascinated by me
as I was she,

but alas reality
saw me to sleep
alone.

There is a longing,
a deep-seated human instinct
that pushes us in to meet
strange people.

Strangely,
technology
has turned me
into a peeper,
legally voyeuristic
with strangers
I have never visited.

I have the delusion
of a connection
because of some
social media intrusion;
Which means
I don’t have to
have a friend
introduce me to them.

I can just chat them up
or watch them
from a cyber distance
with a binary connection
of ones and zeros.

So, this human need
to interact and meet
strangers who are
similar and unique
is satisfied
without any risk
of rejection.

But this is an illusion,
despite my intrusion
I do not know them,

and as this
tacky techiness
evolves
we will
stay secluded in
our sic soft shadows
without actually connecting…
to….to…
User----Offline.

Is it relative
to the struggle
to live
that worked
its way
from all
the epic yesterdays,
each generation
passing dna,
each saga
set in stone
by the sages
who remember?

Is it based
on the formula
of hourly wages
times the time
we put in
constantly working
as a cog in
the machine?

Is it
a product
of relationships
from familial
to all of our
friendships?

Is it
measured
by potential
future achievements?

Or are we just
pounds of flesh
easily discarded,
meat for the factory
cannon fodder,
children to the slaughter?

I wonder,
what is the value of life?

Looking for
a pull up bar
that I can put on
my bedroom door,

because I am working on
building my
back strength
and overall
sexiness.

Looking for
all the episode
of my favorite shows
that I didn’t know
I hadn’t seen yet,

because I am
super obsessive
and have to know
how the whole thing goes
not just the beginning
and end.

Looking for
Star Trek,
Buffy
The
Vampire
Slayer,
and graphic
novel books,

because
I love to read
about the things
that sustained me
when I was a kid.

Looking for
humanity,
all those
struggling
people
who strive to be
better,

because
I feel like
this club of only us
against all other
human beings
have lost our way
and we need to be
reminded
we are one people
not disparate parts
set in a spark
of constant conflict.

Seeking,
the similar spirit
of a suffering soul-mate
who yearns to find
said compatible mind.

Seeking,
at least a part-time
companion
to be mine
without acknowledging
reciprocal ownership,
or ever really mentioning it.

Seeking,
a person with
a passionate
temperament,
who isn’t violent.

Seeking,
a sexually charged
person who likes
to be pleasured all night,
but must be prepared
to enjoy the foreplay
and preshow,
cause the main event
has a short stay.

Seeking,
a self-evolver
who will
help me feel
challenged,
as I challenge them.
cause in sharing
we will both
grow,
which is a total
win.

The rushing rapids of time
crash against the shore
leaving scores
of broken bodies behind.

Precious moment
are precariously fleeting,
falling fast into the past.

Treasured memories are stored
but poorly recalled
till they are permanently lost.

Green fields with white lines
mark the marching band’s time
as two rows of three
bright white lights
glare back balefully.

Teenage players push the lines
measuring their manliness,
but it never really moved me
as much as it moved the herd of kids
I grew up with.

So now after they cut the arts,
they debate whether to
cut the yards
that students run through.

After they cut the children’s
one hours of freedom
to create and daydream,
now they want to cut
the football team.

In a hillbilly town
that is where the
white line is drawn,

cause you can take the arts
cut the quivering heart
of creativity
that helps us learn
how to solve problems
uniquely,

but you can’t cut
the concussion causing
sports team,
that would be redneck
heresy.

Do you ever wonder why
there is a severely short supply
of truly nice guys?

I can’t believe
that you are surprised,
how you cry
about the jerks that
cheat and lie.

There was a gentleman,
a considerate human being,
who was genuinely caring,

but he learned his lesson well,
stopped daydreaming
and caring,
stopped despairing,
stopped showing up
to hear about your bad luck
with the dumb ****
dump truck
of abuse,
that you kept defending
and running back to.

The young one
who had so many
loved ones
run from
him
straight into the arms
of dangerous men
has taken all his
romantic notions and trust
and departed
with an angry and broken heart.

That is where the nice guys
have all gone.

She is a small brush fire,
a lifetime set ablaze
reddening skin
melting and swirling
in outrageous agony
as she contorts herself
to accommodate everyone.

Unsettled and unpredictable
constantly turning
the tables on herself,
one minute she is
dancing in a tapestry
of manic happiness,
then in the next
she is obsessed
existing in a heightened state  
of anxiety and sadness.

The bright lights illuminate
brilliant displays
of personal pain
that explode on the stage
as she reads her
tragic truths
in poetic verse.

So, she plays with
more matches
spreading the flame
by sharing her pain
till everyone else
burns the same.

It’s all a lie. I work the words, speaking spastically in humorous verbs, and **** jokes. Strangers smile, and tender sweet laughter, which I love. So, I keep pushing the boundaries, working weird thoughts. They laugh more, which is what I work for.

Later when they are not looking, I look at them. I try to keep it less creepy than the other stalker type men, but I am studying them; Learning the limits of my understanding, sussing out the rhythms in which they speak and think. I try to devour their truths but hope they don’t see me struggling to see them.

I observe the hallway world. There is a man a foot shorter than me with a very wide waist, slightly longer white hair that gently curls at each end with small bald spot in the back, and the face of a cherub. Hands in his pocket he barely looks up but gives me a slight grin when I acknowledge him. Then his eyes return to the ground three steps ahead. He speaks softly and walks slowly. I know he is hiding something deep, but I do not try to see too far behind the surface, to the grander mind because people don’t appreciate that kind of trespassing. I wonder if his shyness is a product of years of rejection, abuse, or merely a reflection of a truly introverted disposition.

I am in a hurry, dropping off books at an out of town library, and picking up some poetry to devour later. She must be new, because she moves slowly. Then attempts to engage me in social pleasantries. I am trying not to pay any attention, and she is not super desperate, but she wants to speak and be heard. So, I really look at her.
Lengthy strands of brown thinning hair fall down her long skinny face, slightly obscuring a small growth under the left side of her cheek. Thin rim glasses look at me, as she talks about what she likes to read. Then shifts the discussion to the walking dead. She is passionate and despite my previous urge to escape, I am now sincerely engaged.
The gym is loud with ****** music and clinking equipment. She is stunning; Long wavy hair released after a hard workout. She is tanned, and thin but muscular, with a soft and generous voice. I ask her about her boys, and old man. She always appreciates that. We keep the chit chat short, so we can workout and get on with the day.

I stare back at a familiar but silent face, there is a building rage ready erupt, something deep and dark that is waiting to self-destruct. I do not like this person much. Dark hazel eyes pressure me, to seek something deep, short dark brown hair recedes but at a barely perceptibly rate. Teeth seem to be shrinking extremely slowly, except for the lost and already rotting ones. His body is losing fat. He is improving, but **** that. He should work harder.
I have little patience and compassion for this dumb doppelganger, but I still observe seeking something deeper, the darker unheard truths. I stare at him and snarl.

      “I like them much more then you.”

There is darkness
and major melancholia;
She is trembling,
a tiny lady
dry skin
chapping,
flesh cracking
and losing blood.

In those
open spaces
merely moments pass,
but those cracks
grow and expose
more of her soul.

Dark dandelions
and crimson roses
explode from the holes.
Tiny ruptures
fill with the rapture
of delightful smells,
as she takes
all of her hells
and makes art,
as she sculpts
each heartbreak
into a grand sculpture.

There is no noting
some grand healing
or great transformative power
in her transubstantiation
of pain into beauty,
merely art.

The miniature brown banded
queer clock stops
no longer moving
or marking new moments.
Till one year is lost
to the timelessness
of a broken watch.

I ran on the roads,
hot black top
making me melt in
my cloths
that were soaked from
so much sweating.

Heated frustration
edging me on
while my body built up
lots of
stinging lactic acid.

Breath beating me,
as I gasped eagerly
to quench
my thirst
for oxygen.

I ran rough
heading fast up
the high wooden steps
to work myself
to death
with weights.

Wondering why
I pushed so hard,
I hit the yard
hurting myself
with the back
of the executioner’s axe.

Why did I strive?

All I can think is,
stubborn pride
and rage
moved me.

The last flower
unable to flee
the earth I see
as I unfold
feeling lite petals
ready to be plucked.

The final fraction
of unscorched skin
unwetted with red lines
or bulging bruises,
the ****** flesh
that I never let
you touch

The dead wood
brown and broken
mushrooms growing
with rings of age exposed
cause they took the top
and left the rest
to rot and drop.

The subtraction of
the howling instincts
that are urging me
to keep collecting
useless things,
the growling beasts
that are hurting
and hunting me
demeaning while
devouring
my well-being.

I play the same song,
set that beat on repeat
so, I can write and think
or think and write
about my strange life.

A glass complexion,
distorted reflection
filled with old and new
shades and hues
of my personal truths.

Like a mirror I exist in
the dark hallways
from old schooldays
as I crept quietly
to get whatever ology
book I needed
to do my homework.

Like late Friday nights
working with my mom
at the daycare center
cleaning up
to save her a couple bucks
as I listen to the cheers
an see the searing stadium lights
from the high school
less than a block away.

Like red flesh swelling up
though not quite bruising,
from the anger of a parent
who felt some unknown rage
that I cannot decode;
Silent stares in contemplation
facing the man in the mirror
with a queer confused face,

My memory is
like a baby bird
that sat straddling
the thin brown branches
barely balancing
precariously
close to falling.

Preacher
give me
a practical
parable,
a pleasant metaphor
for
something deep
and meaningful.

Preacher
pass on
some wild
wisdom
that I was
sadly lacking,
please go on
unpacking
with unpracticed ease
whatever lie
you please
wrapped up
in your
bibleleese
bubbling
*******.

I know you’re
very content
with it.

So, preach away,
but do not
expect me
to swallow it.

The red wax lips
never drip
or even melt,
so, I merely
chewed on them,
enjoying
the strange
flavoring.

Tiny penny
tootsies rolls
were not as good as
the ones
my grandma made.

Little colored
laffy taffy
made me wacky
when I tried
to tell
the jokes
from the wrapper.

Zero bars
were better then
the musketeers
but not the
almond mounds.

Easter chocolate
and jelly beans,
makes my mouth water
even now.

Those sugary treats
cause me
to salivate
greatly,
even from the corners
of my memories.

The metal moves faster,
as he pushes the pedal down,
innocent urges shift from
first to second;
Moments of magic speed
with piercing wind
which he breathed in
almost syncing them
to his racing heartbeat.
The engine roars,
as he implores
time to take him
farther away from
everyone.
A sharp turn
turns him over
and as his car leaves the ground
he thinks
I am free.

The train chugs
along
moving at an
average pace
away from the place
he longs to escape.
Not as fast as the car
but this time
he gets much farther,
and enjoys the
tranquility
of seeing each city
slide by the side
and out of view
as he stares out
the train window.
  
The sea
opens up
as the boat
pushes forth into
a whole unknown
watery world,
as he moves farther
and farther
away from home
seeking
the freedom
of the unfamiliar.

Wings move him
away from the earth
and toward the heavens,
but it is never far enough away
for him to find
the freedom
he seeks.

Gravity is released,
as he looks
at a world below
with no
borders,
or countries
and though
he knows
he will have to go back
he turns around
to see the
bluish black
expanse
with white diamonds
that beckon him
to his freedom.

Years of pain
spent in a bed
as his frame
withers away,
followed by
a failing mind,
until the last day
when he finally finds
the freedom
he has been chasing
all his life.

The bright white headlights
pierced the quiet night sky,
catching the hazel eyed
strange passerby,

the unsuspecting figure
who was crossing the road
by the beautiful pathway
that lay straight next to
a perfect beach view.

There, solid metal struck
with an unsettling thud,
the fleshy form
of that adolescent.

As expected
when metal meets
meaty flesh,
that young man flew
if just for a second or two,
then tripped over the side rail
and fell.

The driver accelerated
moving quickly away
not wanting to face
the consequences
of this crash,

while further down
on wet and sandy ground
a human being
struggled to move
in hopes of being seen,
and saved.

Each breath agony,
persisting only in the hopes of living,
but never found salvation’s answer.

Dead flesh
falls fast,
like statues of ash
which drop
after that
horrible flash.

Black shadows
of negative space
paint the sidewalk
in that nightmare place.

I can see the shaded form
of former children
who once ran and played.
Now all that remains
is charcoal dust
and pictures that must
bear witness to
the loss of human innocence.

Atomic madness,
mushroom clouds
made this
tragic story,
leaving sick clouds
to cough up
nuclear poison
on another batch of
innocent children.

The music makes me
want to move freely,
bouncing in my seat
as I continue driving.

I sit smiling and singing
while strangers
might stare at me,
leaning oddly,
confused about how
happy I could be
to be driving
down a congested
city street.

This is not fiction,
cause my boss caught me
bobbing playfully,
he thought it was funny
that I was playing
so gleefully
while driving.

It is just this short life
requires that I smile or die,
that I force fun to come
instead having me run from
the horrors that hound me.

So, I when the mood hits,
I move and shift
in my car seat,
and dance stupidly
to the music’s beat.

These marvelous mystics
work word magic,
in the realm of poetics.

Waves of sounds penetrate
the mental barriers
my peers have made.

They speak with silver spades,
digging up the beauty and wisdom,
bending, and breaking the light with
the weird wonder of their syllable prisms.

They crack the mental prisons
that embiggen
the cash flow of sexists and bigots.
They expose the spigot
that spews *******,
with chunks and bits
of acid spit and ****.

They turn the darkness
into lighted corners,
take the depression
and hopelessness
that was all consuming
and present you
with a new view.

They assimilate and share
information and inspiration.
With similes and metaphors,
they explore
all avenues to truth.
Though they soar
too close to the sun
they still manage
to bring back that blazing beauty
before their wax wings melt
and they sink into
the history of
salt water words.

We cannot time travel.

We cannot unravel
time’s cruel arrow.

We cannot fly
like a sparrow
returning
from whence we came
revisiting old places
that only lay
in our memory.

We cannot replay
the day in any real way,

and by we
I really mean me
because I cannot
go back to see
deceased family
or just steal one precious moment
from my childhood.

I cannot
look at my baby brother
when he was little,
then hug and squeeze him.

All I can do
is remind him
presently
that he
is a treasure to me.

It is quiet,
secret seconds
seeking distractions
from overthinking,
and reacting.

Obsessive behavior
becomes
redundant checking,
and occasionally
checking again
unnecessarily.

It is observing
emotional signals
and decoding them
to the best of
one’s ability,
consciously,
and unconsciously.
Till, their anxiety,
anger, and sadness
is distorted
and reflected
in your feelings.

It is only alleviated
in engaging with
informative
and educational information,
fitness and exercise,
entertainment,
or sleeping.

I have a heart
made to adore
juvenile fantasies,
despite modern tragedies.

In moments of madness
when modern photography
presents to me
the horrors of humanity
I can engage for a minute
and escape the insanity
in the comics
that carry super hero forms.

When I see bombs
that blister skin
till flesh bursts
revealing red disfigurement
I can travel in
my own mental
compartment
to escape this.
I can revisit
Winnie the pooh
or review the crew
of “Star Trek
The Next Generation.”

When mind numbing poverty
rears its sad faces at me,
with stranger’s eyes
and thin lips quivering
in lonely desperation,
despite my empathy
I have a gift for escaping
the irrationality
of human suffering.

I just sip the soft brew
of nostalgia for old cartoons
recalling a slightly saner time,
when all the sorrows
were only mine,
when I ached
with a mother’s fury
but tv shows saw me distracted
the fact is
I have been escaping
my whole life,

and I don’t see
that changing.

I am still strange,
haven’t managed
to change
enough
to fit in.

I still enjoy
the comic books
I collected
when I was
a young boy.

I still like
the sci-fi
fantasy
movies,
and tv shows.

I am still
as curious
as the little kid
who hid
and watched
robins
walk
with their
heads
bobbin.

I am still reading
searching,
and pleading,
longing
with aching sincerity
for a world
that will appreciate me,
but I think
that I am too strange
for this reality.

Less then
three hundred miles
and three years away,

but I can still feel
the sunlight
streaming in
from the fifth floor
window.

I can still see
the long
multi-laned streets
cluttered with cars,
trucks, and billboards.

I can still taste
the hot wings
dipped in ranch
that I ate for dinner,
and the small omelets
in cheese streaked
plastic wrap
along with
the gravy soaked
biscuits.

I can still feel
the cool blankets
that saw me safely
to sleep
after I would eat
the free breakfast.

I can still hear
the sound of
strangers
speaking in
muffled tones,
blocked by
thin walls.
I can even recall
the sound of rainfall,

and though I am
almost content
with this moment
in my life,
part of me
would like to see
that memory
in real time.

At first I was a lover,
adherent adorer
of the ultimate
father figure
to whom
I sublimated
all that I was.

Then when
faced with
the pain
of existence
I became
a questioner
of the almighty.

In studying
the sorrows of history,
I saw the stain
of human tragedy
perpetuated
on the forms
that people hated,
how they mutilated
men, women,
and children.
Then I became
an accuser
judging
the behavior
or lack there of
of this
omnipotent being.

Till, I saw the truth
and the abstraction
shrank from something
to nothing.
The light of a creator
that subdued my mind
and enslaved my spirit
blinked out into the nothingness
that it always was.

I long to pull back
the pale skin *****,
to release that
deep world
woven in
my imagination,

but the voices I heard
of the heartbroken
and disturbed
pierce the veil
and permeate
the place where
my dreams dwell.
Till, all hopes
and playful notions
become adult nightmares.

I long to
achoo
and spew
silliness,

but seriousness
is silence to
that heartbeat
that taps out
daydreams,
erasing the
treasure maps
that lead us back
to free form fun.

I long to
inspire you
to play as I use to,
but in truth
I forgot how
to do what I
ask of you.

Green bodied bison
with brown branch legs
press over and in
the frontage roads
that I am passing.

Monolithic green forms
moving forth like
a herd of wild
but super slow
silly buffalo.

Almost static
except for
the way they move
in the summer wind
flowing back and forth
then back again.

What a wonderful set of
modern megalithic
monsters made from
my imagination.

Maybe you will see
fake flakes swiftly
swirling in a globe.

What a gimmick,
a water world
made to mimic
a furious flurry
of blizzard like fury.

Shake it up
but do not let
the glass ball
ever fall
because
if it cracks
you will
never be able
to get that
snow dream back.

Grief sees grief,

sorrow spoken
in tear drops
and swollen
red eyes.

Grief speaks to grief,

in holding hands,
hugs and
heartfelt conversations.

Grief cannot cure grief,

or see sorrows removed,
flesh unbruised,
and the abused
reborn.

Grief can ease grief,

tension softened
in the presence
of those
who share the essence
of similar
experiences.

The sun strays
as its ray
fall *******
the yard that
is long gone,
mud dried
to the point of dust,
green grass
a thing of the past.

No one remembers
what a lawn chair was,
or when
the summer went
so slow
as the old folks
sat in the yard
and yacked on
about some thing
us younglings
didn’t have
any interest in.

The flower bed
is long dead,
stone blocks
now play border
to a wasteland
of forgotten
garden dreams.

The old occupants
have long since
passed
and all that is left
are memories
and even they
will not last.

No time to judge
when you are in pain,
I just bring you
open arms again.

Hug you up
into the air,
till you can
barely hear
all the anguish
that has been
beating on you
like a drummer’s
stick.

Squeeze you
so tight
that all that darkness
just pours out
and all the
light I have
is yours to absorb,

and as an added bonus
I open both ears up
to hear all that stuff
you need to unload.

The night sky
settles in
as I sit dreading
the deep thoughts
that lurk beneath
the memories
that are pursuing me.

Fierce figures,
hungry, starving
like some monster
making mortal men
run away screaming.

My heartbeat bounces
like a bunch of black balloons
in a barely lit ballroom.

Heavy as a hammer.
I do not stammer,
just run much faster
trying to be a better planner,
and a well mannered
warrior.

I strip the flesh
from the beasts I know
trying to build
a better ego
cause I know
I am worthy,
even though
doubt still
hounds me.

Everyone knows
I’m a nice guy,
but underneath
the underside
there is a darker sky,
storms set to thunder
shocking lighting
firing from my eyes.

Heartbeat bursts
facing those
who are worse,
corpse kings,
killing the innocent
line of little children,
tiny kids
riding in hearses
while a state dupe
steps up and rehearses
how to serve the greed
of the already wealthy.

I am
the classic
good guy,
but you will see
the shivers
of angst
and anger
rise in me
even when
I am stifling
said rage.

I bite my
gums so hard
that my teeth
chip and crumble,
I watch fools stumble
as I rave and rumble
ready to fight,
but just before
my otherside
comes to
take your life
I let the hate
subside,
and give you
the gift
of insight
and one more night.

I am so sick
of this
thick ****
that split lip
from some
dumb *****.

Macho
man
with a
quick fist
who likes to
call women
*******
and chicks
while he hits
them.

Big bad
bro boy,
confident
with no
reason to be
and I am
jealous cause he
gets more
love then me.

I’m not
looking for
****** gratification,
just deep
conversation
and a little
appreciation.

But isolation
is what I am facing
while a sub-par
sports car
*******
never goes
home alone.

I’m just a fading echo
of my younger self,
an empty shadow
who performs
a preordained
ballet
with a broken leg
red and inflamed.

I’m just a broken
ceramic figurine
that is beautiful
but barely seen
and seldom
appreciated
for the quality
I bring.

I’m just a Poe
and Van Gogh
tragic
romantic
poet
longing to connect
to world
that forgets
its humanity
constantly.

I’m just tired.

Face flushed
I taste dust,
cause she’s livid
with a vivid
imagination.

I move up
one bar
then back down
to the clown car.

Light signal changes
to the wrong color
giving me
a signal to see
that is a
confusing
communique.

I am enraptured
by the next chapter
she used to capture
my heart.

The past is the spark
where she parked
her poetic heart,
as I asked to see
whatever she
would grant me
freely,
in her poetry.

I long for
a great dialogue,
but she
doesn’t
long for me.
So, I am left to see
the slow decline
of my sanity.

Old blue jeans
haven’t faded yet,
still unblurred
as he moves
undeterred
by a painful past;

Slightly slumping,
shoulders sagging
like a soldier
who is dragging
his body back
from an unknown war.

Well earned
wrinkles on his face
are deeply ingrained
as deep blue eyes
shield a soft soul
from feeling
to cold.

Brown spotted skin,
but his hair is still black,
the pain is still there
in the past
as a matter
of facts
that others lack.

It is all superficial.
People can’t even see
the surface scars
that he hides
behind his sleeves.
Desert dry eyes
can no longer
sooth a parched heart.

Outside
of our ability
to perceive
is his grief,
strange subtractions
from his life
like his parents,
his friends,
and his wife,

All we can see
is a solitary
sad stranger.