You are resentful of the essential
growth of knowledge and wisdom.
You treat good men
like garbage
and bad guys
like heroes.
Your poets
and scientists
are forgotten
and in exchange for that
your leaders give you this ****.
The **** you miss
is replaced by a face
of pure contempt
and you praise him
for a *****’s definition
of greatness.

My imagination puts me in the weirdest places.
******* in a gas station
I picture the wet graffitied wall thinning
as it turns into diaphanous skin.

The thin dermis
is warm to the touch.
As my **** is drained of this
bright yellow ****
I lean forward
pushing against
the wall.
The thin skin tiles give in.

I almost trip and fall into that wall.
Now it pulses
responding to the pressure of
my accidental touch.
Then it glows
and my hand gets stuck.
I sputter what the ****,
and try to pull out but
the wall is pulling me in.
Now it is burning my skin
as if I am being digested.
My flesh is sizzling,
while I am screaming
and that is where
this disturbing daydream ends.

It was a short
but fast shot
that spit from
the tip of
my throttled ****
as I daydreamed about
a pretty black haired woman.

She is sweet and kind
but I know in reality
she would decline
an invitation to tour
my ***** and overactive mind.

So, I take matters into my own hands
purging the pervy desires that persistently
push and perplex me.

Eyes closed
I imagined her with no clothes,
only a soft smile
in the form of a celestially ****
cosmic fury.

I pictured her lips pursed
as she sighs
a pleasurable curse
chiding and calling me
her favorite ******* perv.

Her big bouncing *******
fill my whole mind
just like her
round and firm behind.

Soft lips kissing mine;
This fantasy ravages
my rational mind
while my tongue touches
the skin on the side of her neck
and slowly slides down
to her soft deliciously bushy mound.

I visualize
licking her moist ****.
My tongue tickling the edges of it
as it folds and curls its way
deep into the dark depths of
her desire.
Till, she is ready for
the head of my ****.
I let her quivering ****
swallow the whole shaft of it
moving perfectly
as her naked body grinds
and shifts pleasurably
on top of mine.
Skin to skin,
back and forth
her ******* tickle my chest
as I grasp her tighter
and tighter.
She comes
and comes
as our tongues
swirl around each other
like dolphins dancing
in an ocean of lust.

I dropped my drawers
shake and stroke
as I choked this dope
finishing firmly
in less then
fifteen minutes
and returning my mind to
its regular curiosities.

She will never be a reality.
Instead, it is only me
working out
my ***** graphic fantasies
about someone I love
who will never love me.

If ever the clever killer
cleaved the cold ether
no one perceived
cause it was only a thing
of old mad scientists’
and maniacal alchemists’
fictional dreams.

The red eyes
And snot stained
Sleeves

The shudders of
Emotional agony

The cement stones
Standing in rows

The tears of strangers
Without homes

The raggedy man
With years of grey growth
Holding a sign
So you know
That he needs help

The elderly man
Spotted skin
Wrinkling
While people
Keep forgetting him

The climate changed
Species displaced
And people running away
To find a safe place

Me, begging you to see
The suffering of humanity
While you just ignore me

This bipolar late winter weather
is so confusing that the birds
return as quickly as the flowers
that try to bloom early.

The sun merges with the horizon.
Until, orange rays give way
to light blue.
Then that hue
gives into a darker view.

At night the lamplights
wear rainbow halos
that signify
the function of
my tired eyes.

While all other trees
are bereft of leaves
the conifers confer
their prickly beauty upon me;
Scratching my skin
only as fiercely
as I press in
to their personal space.

Always moving forward
and off at an awkward angle
I pursue the white light
half of the moon
that makes a Cheshire grin.
The high school windows
across the street
reflect strange distortions
back at me
as I walk the parking lot
watching the darker shade
within my shadow.
I slink up onto
the sidewalk
that is a gray portrait
of its pock marked past.

At last, I come in from the outside
losing what’s left of the bright night
and nature’s musical life.
I walk the sterile colorless corridors
that cut and cross to nowhere,
while my spirit yearns
to return to
the outside world I was
just describing for you.

Busted ventricle,
palpitating atrium.
All these hearts are breaking
from all these stranger
hating.

Refugees are struggling,
hiding from Ice agents
while all these *******
keep buying
what a giant **** is saying.

One person is pulled
from the cancer ward.
One father is stolen
before he drove home alone,
never even made it back from
taking his kid to school.
The child cries
as I wonder why
these people can’t find
their human side.

It is strange that this news
seldom makes it to the tv,
strange how the other’s blues
don’t seem to garner
that many internet views,
but if a white dude
or a caucasian lady is abused
you’ll see that bright and early
on the fox and friends news.

If you think this is a new thing
you haven’t been reading
our shared history
this is just a crime
in a long line of crimes
we committed throughout history.

I was starving when
Hades kidnapped
and imprisoned me.
It doesn’t seem godly
when Zeus fondled me,
when Poseidon ***** me,
and Athena turned me
into a snake beast.
Gods are not saintly.
They are violent
and degrading.

A thousand years later
the new great creator
is just as misogynistic.
He is really scary
cause he put his abstract ****
in the ****** Mary’s hairy *****
to plant the seeds of himself.
That’s **** your *****!

So, either accept that this ****
is stranger than pulp fan fiction,
or admit that you submit
to vile and violent villain.

This is a dark palace
Of deliberately dangerous
desires that
abruptly disrupts
and veraciously corrupts
all newcomers.

Plebian minds
mass in manic displays
of their sheepish ways
submitting to
the least alpha
of the American
upper class
crusty *** crew.

The enemy
claims he is
iconoclast
and mysterious,
but he is not
what he purports to be.

On these dismal days
I observe
the hurtful hand
of our material obsession.
I see us become the property
of our possessions.

Yet, with an elegy
of creative energy
I seek to set
all children of
our society free,
writing and  posting
with the same passion
as the romantics
that came before me.

If you support the troops
then support them dude.
Don’t give me an excuse
while the rich dudes
exploit the troops and you to.

Depression is so brutal.
It is not a French poodle.
There is nothing cute about it.

I never forgive myself.
I do not like to write
about my deepest truths
even when I lie to tell you
who I really am.
I still censor that man.

I never forgive myself,
but I let everybody else
do so much worse then
I ever did when I was kid.

I never forgive myself.
I set my standards to high.
I push too hard
and a part of me hopes
I fly so high that I die
when I touch the sky
and fall down
wax feathered wings and all.

I never forgive myself
but maybe you will.
I’ll give you my words
and help you feel
connected to the strangers
that you barely feel are real to you.

I never forgive myself
for not sacrificing all
to be the greatest poet activist.
I only visit this purpose
in my poetry and prose.

Who knows if I ever will?
I will probably die
unforgiven
and apart from everyone,
cause I never forgive myself
even when I am home alone.

Memories are harsh specters,
and white vapor prisons
where family members revisit
the past to avoid the present.

Like friendly spirits
memories cannot touch us
but phase through us
until grief and regret
force us out into a dark fugue.

Wet grass weeps green
beneath the feet that run
in our remembering dreams.

Soft, thin, and wrinkled hands
pass plates around
preparing food
that even today
finds their taste
elicits to many  
confusing emotions and memories.

A small beagle mutt type dog
growls distrustfully
at strangers it sees,
saving all of its salt wet
affections for me.

Old man in a metal reclining lawn chair
still waits somewhere
back there
in a small-town memory,
tickling a smaller version of me
when I try to hug him.

These specter scratch at my skull.
pushing past my mental guard
and get under my skin,
because I still miss them.

Language is the way i love humanity with an outsiders affection. Listening to the language of their stories, as they slowly reveal the essence of who they are, tentatively exposing just enough to intrigue but not scare strangers away.

Well, we curse to.
Till we see the crack.
There is a point of light
but the darkness will come back.

So, I sit and swallow
pure sugar cane hope,
that sprouts in my throat
and grows into sorrow.
Until, I am paralyzed
by surprise.

People pay the politicians
to secure their poorer positions
while wealthy businessmen
keep on ******* them
with their business interest.

Another click and they unfriend,
another day as I try and bend
contorting myself to see their side
while they hide behind the lies
and bullet hole riddled talking points.

They say god bless America
and pray to support the troops
while I say no more war
please and thank you.
I tell them the truth
but they just call me an *******
and do what they were programmed to do.

I guess this poetry is more for me
then it is for you,
but you can share it to.
if your feeling blue
then this truths for you.

I love you
and peace out.

If you haven’t bled
then I don’t need you.
No pain in your soul
then I can see through you.
That deep blue hue is true to
but your depth doesn’t match
the latch that **** blocks
the brown doors that are locked
and if I can’t get in to your mind
then that is fine.

Just give me the red stains
that paint my human pain
when I try and try again
to ******* before it is to late
to activate your empathy
for all of our human kin.

I sit in the dark
and puncture my heart
play poet to start
balancing all of those
uneven evening stars.
Till all of our scars blink at
the same twinkling beat that
blows me away like
an old-school gangster’s gat.

Now, I bleed
and I can’t get that red shirt back
this isn’t Star trek
but I use to figure that
we would be better than that.
Instead, we are worse.

So I curse this curious soul,
drop off to sleep and lose control.
I let my sub conscious go,
shrink my hope and let sorrow grow,
write it down so you will know
that we are not getting better.
We’re getting way worse.

You don’t always have to
wear a red cape
to swoop in and save your
super friends.

Sometimes you can
share the burden.
Sometimes you can
let me in.

Then I will be wearing
my own green cape
cause green is great
and it’s my favorite color.

I am a terrible human being. **** storming, anger machine that spits hateful things in poetry.
My memory is a landfill, of abuses, and poorly remembered happier times. I struggle to find the truth behind my anger, sadness, and regret. Is it what I remember, forget, or can’t forget that has ****** me up? Her face causes the familiar rage to rise. Voice spewing lies, or what I think is lies. I spent most of my life trying to figure out how it was my fault. I am still trying to figure how it might be my fault. Hyper kid, tired and lonely mother, the formula does not mix. I cannot calculate the value of her violence minus what I did to deserve it. Did I earn it? People aren’t all bad? I can remember going to the movies a couple of times, traveling and listening to music, holidays and presents, but in the present all that is shaded. I am jaded by being locked in an unlocked room, cut off in solitary confinement, because she got busted for the violence. I remember how she had to know what I told the counselor. So I stopped telling them anything.
A smart man knows that human memory is not perfect, so I keep trying to figure out how I deserved to get hit, why I deserved to be isolated, verbally degraded. Part of it had to be my fault, cause people just don’t lash out. I struggle to find out what it was all about because I am scared. If I can’t figure out the reason, if there was no good reason, could I become her?

He who works
with mortality
seeks morality.
To be good,
to be kind,
he walks into
the burning
sands of time
alone.

But a man should not
stand alone,
should find a home,
work out his wanderlust
but settle down,
should have a tribe
to stand by his side,
to be his guide,
when he is wrong
and listen when
he is right.

Perhaps,
I am a fool
who is too far gone
and always wrong,
but how far would I go
to come back home
to my friends again.

Will I always be
one second to late
to see them succumb
to the only true fate?

This is not a depressive poem,
merely a preemptive
elegy for the heart of me.

It is a writer’s rage
that inks and turns
each bright white page
into a thing of calligraphic chaos.
Weird words are woven
into some coherent pattern
for the reader to readily discern;
Some hopeful aspiration
that denies or confirms
the appreciation the poet
hopes to earn
before time turns
his words to ashes.

Please,
do not let
the words fail me
or vice a versa.

I need a verse to
give the evening
to you
because you deserve
the universe.

I may be tired
but everything inspires
higher creativity
and what I seek
is to gift thee
graciously
with a reality
where you can be
happy.

So as my eyes flutter
falling over
the constant clutter
of humankind.
I hope I find
the precise rhyme
to unlock your mind
so that in time
you can return the favor
bring the flavor later
to be my verbal savior
and inspire my desire
to continue to live and
be a great creator.

Barely beyond January
half-way into February
winter should still be cold.
Instead, it is vexing me
fluctuating between
fifty to sixty degrees.

Now the weather confusion
unleashes the wanderlust in me.
My car comes rumbling
stumbling over loose gravel.

Still daylight,
but there is no sun in the sky
just cool blue, and grey clouds
with unknown animals
hooting and howling
out their own natural melodies.

I park to play
a video game
on my cellphone
then write down a couple of notes
while intermittently reading
two different books
of poetry.

The old empty elm tree
waves drunkenly at me.
Sparse spindly fingers ascend,
empty but imagining
that spring will bring back
the soft living green.

All this observed
in under an hour.
Until, my impatience
drives me back home
to all of my distracting
technology.

Please,
Do not let 
The words fail me
Or vice a versa 

I need a verse to
Give the evening 
To you
Because you deserve
The universe

I may be tired
But everything inspire
Higher creativity
And what I seek
Is to gift thee
Graciously
With a reality
Where you can be
Happy

So as my eyes flutter
Falling over 
The constant clutter
Of humankind
I hope I find
The precise rhyme
To unlock your mind
So that in time
Some time later
You can return the favor
Bring the flavor
To be my verbal savior 
And inspire my desire
To continue to live and 
Be a great creator

Two petite pretties 
pranced before me
paragons of the 
impoverished society
that values surface 
over depth

The dancing debutantes
Dangled their dangerous
And dubious dispositions
Directly in front of me

Enter stage bad boy
Blustering buffoon
With a silver spoon
So far up his ***
He spewed silver polish
On his nice Polish pants

Cash in hand
He passed around 
His affluences
Like it was influenza
Vomiting vague
Platitudes with 
So much attitude 
As if he had 
Anything valid to say

But this crowd was rapt
With the vapid vocalist
He drank expensive ****
To prove he was valid
No valor just vain vagaries
On display to frustrate me 
Greatly

They celebrated the success of a 
Failing millionaire who was premade
By the fortune that his father made
To bail him out of all of his mistakes
As he played society like a broken violin
I was trying to bring talented art back in
But society placed me in the trash bin
Before I could even begin
To purge the poison
The incurably incurious
Perpetuators of 
Shallowness

So I bow out of this
Cause I thought 
We were working together
To make each other’s life better
But it turns out I was 
Running a race 
I did not even know about

He who works
With mortality 
Seeks morality
To be good
To be kind
Walks into 
The burning 
Sands of time
Alone 

But a man should not 
Stand alone
Should find a home
Work out his wanderlust
But settle down
Should have a tribe
To stand by his side
To be his guide
When he is wrong
And listen when 
He is right

Perhaps
I am a fool
Who is to far gone
And always wrong
But how far would I go
To come back home
To my friends again

Will I always be
One second to late
To see them succumb
To the only true fate

This is not 
Merely a preemptive
Elegy for the heart of me

It is a writer’s rage
That inks and turns
Each bright white page
Into a thing of calligraphic chaos
Weird words are woven
Into some coherent pattern
For the reader to readily discern
Some hopeful aspiration
That denies or confirms
The appreciation the poet
Hopes to earn
Before time turns
His words to ashes

I’m an ally cat,
straight up
******* strange.

I’m an ally cat
with a strong
case of mange.
Ain’t no
women alive
ever going to
tame,
this grey haired
wandering
battling
ally cat
can’t be trained.

I’m an ally cat
always on the prowl,
haunting
the ***** city streets,
looking for
something meaty
to eat.

I’m an ally cat,
*****, furry,
sometimes friendly.
Though you hurry
I don’t worry
this ally cat
always knows
how to survive.

Real freedom is not won
in a ****** war.
It is fought for
in small moments.

The walls are not
iron heights
and concrete made.

They are digital displays
that parade advertisements,
enticements to subdue
the brilliance of you
to a brand name.

But a free man claims
no exterior blandishments.
His passion is a forest fire
to the average candle stick.
He doesn’t give two *****
about the shirt he is wearing
as long as it fits
and keeps him warm,
while he watches the world
play whack a mole
with the styles of the day.

The walls are not
iron heights
and concrete made.

They are built up
pay day to the next payday.
Each individual tries to
sustain the quality
they have gotten used to
while slowly improving to.
So they struggle through
the tedium of repeated motions,
dull their tempestuous emotions.
Until, it takes a drunken weekend
to find the child inside that
life has brutally beaten into submission.

But a free man
feeds off the land,
takes what he makes
with his own hands,
and the help of nature’s bounty.
He fishes. He hunts.
Despite what the government wants
he immerses himself in the splendors
Of books and bountiful nature.

The walls are not
iron heights
and concrete made.

They are written by academics
and in critic’s reviews of what
other artists should say or do,
how they must bend to
a particular style or form
to acquire the praise and applause
of the frothing swarm.

But a free man writes
what he wants,
how he wants,
and when he wants.
He does not reduce
or restrict his language.
He does not hold back
letting silence serve
the servile gatekeepers.
He is his own master,
mastering his own identity.

The walls are not
iron heights
and concrete made.

I have not escaped.
I have my foot
halfway out
those iron gates.
Perhaps, I will make it there
one of these days,
or these definitions
of being imprisoned
will be the prison
that I need to escape.

My bifocals reject me.
Reality is not made for focusing.
It is made for massive blurriness.
There is no true form of clarity,
just varying degrees of disparity.

One man cries out to me
about how he is so hungry.
He has a bloated beer belly
that bulges out of his jeans.
He is crying about the purity
of his country, so angry
about the brown Muslim,
and so close to a stereotype.

Another man is merely weary.
Thin and drawn lines run down
wrinkling his withering form.
Each one that is found
is like the rings on a tree
reminding us all how he is aging.
His shirt is torn and holy as the mother Mary.
His calloused hands are as harsh as
the sandpaper he has been wielding.
While other yielding tools
play in digital pleasure palaces
of instant gratification
go on week long vacations,
he is working, fifty-something
going on seventy-two.
What is a Brown Muslim
supposed to do to prove
he is a good man?

Sister says it’s all gods will.
She loves all strangers.
She has faith and says that I should feel
the divine energy flowing through me,
but life is way more confusing
because more of the faithful
pledge their support
to the greedy and hateful

I can’t see through to the truth
The bifocals might have worked for you,
splitting life into two points of view,
but for me they are pointed askew.
Perhaps I need to find trifocals,
so I can focus on more varying perspectives.

Why do you hate nihilist? Do they impose those fancy lack of beliefs upon you? Are you afraid to let go of the meaning many cling so dangerously to. Must you have a certain order in order to sustain your own existence?

His face was gray and peppered white chaos
with wrinkles crossing underneath
the tangled mess that strangers see,
concealing a few rotting teeth
that leave only a slight lingering odor.

He holds up a cardboard quality plea
for some human decency.
I oblige in a kindness drive by,
no bullets but, a banana, an apple
a gallon of water, and some love.

Hefty lady at the McDonald’s counter
says that she saw a beggar
pull out a huge ***.
Another worker said she saw
a different beggar taking his donations to
the liquor store on the next corner.

I sit back in a bent black rolly chair
while a friend points somewhere out there
at a young brown skinned man
with his pants sagging partly down
and says that he is a ****.

I do not engage in this conversation
because I do not know any thugs,
so how could I observe and classify
that stranger who was just passing by.

White shirt, and black cap
my friend sits back and yells at
his cellphone
because it won’t play
the current football game.
I smile and try to keep
the chuckles inside of me
as he is cursing his expensive
piece of modern convenience.

I watch these people
but I cannot judge them,
because I know they are all fragile humans beings
and I only have enough heart left to love them.

Some of us hide behind hardened exteriors. We create a shell of fear and mistrust which guards us against the intrusions of strangers into our lives. Still if we look beyond our shells we may find they have become prison which lock us in our hearts, and blind us from the beauty of the world with clouds of ignorance and suspicion.

It is the dark that makes us appreciate the light, cold that makes us appreciate warmth, moistness that makes us appreciate dryness, and sadness which makes us appreciate happiness. That is one of the many reason I love stories that do not have a happy ending.

Some people think that helping others is unselfish. I say that it is a selfishly smart act. By investing time and effort to making this world a better place you not only improve the condition of life for those around you, but for yourself as well. When you act with genuine kindness and sincere goodwill people respond in kind. Plus you get that gushy warm feeling of pride and satisfaction.

Under the immensity of time’s tidal forces
man’s collective achievements are like
the rotations of one electron in one atom
in one molecule in one cell.

I measure my life
in the richness of my experiences
not the artificial yard stick of economic success.

Human beings have been scammed into thinking
that barely keeping
their heads above water
and acting like everyone else
on a hamster wheel
is the height of human achievement

There is a clap.
Faces face
your candy cage
gilded in gummy
sugary glues
made to amuse
your sickly
sweet tooth.

It’s like you use
an apple for a gavel
doling out justice
in judgement
of those who
are starving;

Like you’re ignoring
the reality
but you’re  
hungry to.

We have the tools
but you’re more interested in
revenge for imagined
slights.

So you fight
against your own interest.

Instead of a
grand buffet
you put rocks
and mud on you plate.

Until the day
you fade away
a little slower then
the women and men
you were judging
but almost in
the exact same
anorexic shape.

My skin is
black and blue,
a tender bruise
that matches
my nightly muse.
Darkness
silently expands
beyond my
understanding;
So I sit
and observe
as my vision
blurs to
completely obscured,
then finds an even
darker universe.

The tall trees obscure
but do not match
the twin towering stacks
that bellow out billows of
white dragon clouds.
Bulging bubbles of
noxious smoke
puff and dissipate
threatening to choke
all of us
at their leisure.

It’s not good.
It can’t be healthy
to find the things
that hurt me
and watch them
repeatedly.

But it is the only path
I know how to follow
to learn their truths,
to see how you
hurt them
and how they hurt you,
to find the point of
convergence,
to find a point
of forgiveness.

So, I sacrifice
my small horizon of light
to descend into
the pits of night,
to sip sorrow’s
poisonous brew.
Cause even though
you need to
I know you wont
face what deceives you.
That shiny ****
that pleases you
also blocks the truth.

So, I walk into
that which will
disintegrate me,
to set you free.

Some say be patients
it takes time to measure
and debate this
racist institution
while your religious
delusions
put you right back
to the place you
started from.

You have been crying
begging to be freed
expressing the need
to be released
from the patriarchy
while praying on bended knees
in a place of worship
to an imaginary father figure
who was used
to justify the abuse
you are trying to fight,
the man who gave men the right
to own you, and other slaves to.

You think you are
fighting the people in power
but every Sunday
you head back that way
One step a head
then two back towards
a fake future that
only happens when you are dead.

Yep, you will never break free
of your hated patriarchy
until you reject the farcical
spiritual rituals of the men in black
who feed you crap
take your cash and never give it back
just to tell you what a fictional character
wants you to do.

Its dejavu
the things they do
writing the same poem
but for who?

**** near everyone starts
with the same words.
He or she
and what follows is
some heartbreak
or stroke of obsession.

As if their words
are possessed and compressed
into such tiny things.

Where once blue jays sang
as they softly perched
partly leaning over
where deeply green leaves grows,

now their heart moans
and their skin grows
silky red river scars.

Where once chipmunks
chattered and scattered
dancing around each other
in a wild rumpus,
claiming this ground is
theirs,

now she cries
a ****** without her
drug of choice,
not ******
but his angelic voice.

Where fish scales sparkled
and the pond rippled
in pursuit of what fishes do
while the water was
glimmering to,

now he is perplexed
about how complex
her brown hair is,
wants to know
how she tastes down there
and longs to smack that
backed upped ***.  

Nature evaporates.
Philosophy and poetry
lose their edges,
while I sulk away
to wither in rage
and my own heartbreak
cause I know they are
so much more.

They are vast caverns of complexity,
deep seas of variety,
and a universe inside themselves,
but those are depths
they will not explore.

We love them
like we know them,
like each camouflaged
back pack wearing person
is a mother, daughter,
father, brother,
sister or simple son.

We love them like
they are war heroes,
returning champions
from the greatest
Super Bowl ever.

We love them
like a steak
overheated,
tenderized,
walking till
their bodies cry.

We love them
like they are sheep
bleating from the beating
of bullets, bombs
and lack of sleep,
pushing on
in the long walk.
Till, fatigue takes
every smile and
daydream they ever had.

We love them
Like gods loved
their sacrifices;
Young men,
virgins to life,
slaughtered and worshipped
then denied
the decency
all sentient beings deserve.

We love them
Like they are
chess pieces;
Place women
and men
on the battlements
for the expansion of
capitalistic gains
that wears the guise
Of democracy.
What hypocrisy!

We love them
like we hate them
because they believed
enough to bleed.
While old men lie,
children lie in graves
six feet deep
to many columns wide
and to many rows long.
Even if they come home
they really don’t.

You speak of morality
but have no mercy
deserve no forgiveness
when you do not repent this.
Your actions
are etched on our skin,
that flesh camera
that keeps photos within,
as you cut, bomb, and burn them.
Thus, each mark matches
each dark spot of splotches
as your corruption
devours humans and lands alike.

They say lay down
let it go,
watch your
tumor grow.
Till, it splits
like a tomato.
Till, its juices
wet the ground.
Seeds and skin
soil the earth,
moistening
the dirt.
It hurts
but living
is so much worse.

They say let go,
but your heart
still drums.
Your breathes
still come,
some harder,
others skipped,
sometimes steady,
other times jagged.
White hair thinning,
I am beginning
to see me in you.

They say go
way down into
the ground.
You will not
persevere.
You will be severed
from those mortal strings.
These mortal beings
will become only memories.

They say let go
and I know
that soon I will.

Jack and Jill went on the pill
To a **** a little better
To *** some for fun
To get it done
And pregnancy would not get her
But just one time
That ****** slime
Did its ***** job
Now Jill is getting bigger
And Jack left her on her own