Not quite winter
but the bare sidewalks
are already cold,
and a perfect place
to put my bare foot
to ease the aching pain
as long as no one is
looking my way.
So, I slip off
my right shoe
press it against
the cold concrete
until the pain leaves my feet
and hope
no one notices
this silliness.

I never trust the pretty parts of life,
I only really believe in the dark side,
gritty brutal violence and pain,
so I am seldom let down.
That’s why kindness always makes me cry.

It is fine to hate, hate bad ideas, damaging ideologies, suffering, violence, and greed. However, hating people, diminishes the hater. Any system or person that props itself/themselves up on the basis of hating people damages humanity, and decreases our ability to build a better brighter future.

It may hurt to tell ourselves the truth
To seek out our imperfections
And mark them not for reproof
But for the chance to self-improve
It may sting to hear the facts
May cause our spirits to crack
But we can build our foundations back
And be better for the truth
Cause we are never better for its' lack

It beats louder than I can stand.
Like a tale tell heart
I hear it going
knowing that the immensity
of what I hold inside of me
will either **** or free me.

I hear the sound of thumping.
A foggy night finds me bumping,
as I keep running from the stunning
sound inside.

Now it is deafening,
but no one else can hear it.
I rupture in side spewing lines
but no one else will feel them;

The poetry of love
thud thud thud,

The poetry of peace
Thud thud thud,

The poetry of compassion
Thud thud thud,

It is all the poetry of me
painted in red ink
working its way
in the form of a heartbeat
turning me inside out.

Tears scar
my fevered
red face
as I rage
against
these
unites states.

Pillars of pain
pushed to the point
of bullets and
blood stained
t-shirts.

To young,
to run
far enough
away
that day,

Now politicians
send thoughts and
prayers
but that is
much too little
to even be late.

The media
garners
silent stares
of inaction
while anonymous
internet commenters
call grieving parents
crisis actors.

facebook posts
of dividing positions
put friends in
combative opposition.

I would like
to be fair and neutral,
but the roots
run red and deep
as this dark sea of grief
rises from its sedated state.

So,
I keep on asking
how many more children
have to die
before people do
something right.

We write our regrets in stone
Monuments meant to recognize
Those who will no longer
Be in our lives
Tears of heartache mark
These harsh days
The cruelest and only real fate

They say matter and energy cannot be destroyed
only recycled into something new
So, I will never really lose you
Though the dirt may cover you up
And the centuries will see you turn to dust
And the eons will see you flying into space

I write your face and story in my memory
I will not lose you, integrating you into my being
A shimmering force of energy
Electrical impulses I can retrieve
Until I am no longer me
And I face the same and only true destiny

I am the god of love,
not the ****** conceit.
but the one you defeat
when you bomb to beat
the enemies you create.

I am the god of love,
diametrically opposed
to the god of war
who composed
decrees of hate
to destroy me.

I am the god of love,
the god who heals,
who wants to touch
to make you feel
everything.

I am the god of love,
a creature of ****** passions,
a being of peace and compassion,
but my ambrosia is wearing off,
and my godhood costs.
Soon, I will be unable to afford
or ever earn back
the godhood that humanity lacks.

When my divinity fades to black
that will be the end of that.

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.

I’m Tired of people faking tears
Making fears
While they disappear
With all of our earnings
Grief lights the night like
Stars scarring the midnight sky
Sparse space specters
Screaming why
Teaming life
Has to die
Talking to gravestones
Where nobody stays home
And hearts turn to grey stone

Her words were
as sharp as
the Reaper’s sickle,
severing my soul
into two separate shards
then splitting them
again and again
till all that I was,
was splinters
of my shadow self.

If desire was a wild white rose
Would you let me paint it pink
Slam your back against the wall
And grind you while you’re sitting in the sink
Take a handful of bubbles to wash
And consecrate your flesh
As the holy temple your body is
Feel the goosebumps on your skin
As my tongues slides deeply in
Twirling in a tornado fashion
As I take you beyond the rainbow
Till I know you have cummed
And when you think that I am done
Oh dear let’s be clear,
That’s when the real fun will begin.

It is a solid ache
Harder then
The chest tightening
Cardiac devastation

Hands shake
While I wait
For the world
To catch up to
My kind of love

Tears fall
Unless I distract myself
The cemetery
Holds more like minds
Than I ever find
In these times

I am alone in a sea
Of self-satisfied idiots
Who think the idiot is me

Muscles melt
Legs bend
Minds tend
Towards fantasies

Chants and prayers
Inaction in subservience
While they let the madness go on
But I am wrong

A child starves
They pray
A war goes on
They pray
Rug burns
And sore *****
Bent over
Waiting for an answer
That never comes
But I am the *******

The rose melts
Painted crimson
In fairytales
Of wonderland

The sun departs
Vacating its hydrogen heart
Leaving me with
Only its darker parts

Cascades of liquid
The coagulating kind
Float inside
My troubled mind

Thus, I wonder
While my fingers tap
Beat for heart
Equal to the first
As it will be the last
Will I ever live to see
Such madness pass

An average person can live within the constraints of their social programming. A smart individual can recognize how they are being socially programmed, but it takes a little bit of genius, arrogance, and madness to rewrite one's own intellectual and emotional programming.

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.

This year has been the last,
failing falling fierce battle axe
hovering above my neck.
Panic keeping me in check
as anxiety for the end of society
builds up like a wall of water
which rushes in
ready to crush me and my friends
and drown us all in the end.

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.

It is a spectacular explosion
Of strange puffy whiteness
Daring to duel against
Huge light grey blue hued
Storm clouds
Descending into night time
Star strewn colors
Till the cool cumulous disappear
And the evening rain falls here

No needle still we chase
That purple syrup dragon
Let that poison ride our veins
Carbonated grape beverage
Which gives us
A light crack type rush
Then makes us crash

What a strange constellation she makes,
sweet stellar body
that I view from
a safe distance
cause she would
burn me like the sun,
scorching me
with her radiant beauty,
as I study her astronomy
the anatomy
of cosmic glory.

A cartoon talent
that was unbalance
he guessed
they got dressed
and directed
themselves to
zany acrobatics.

The bad guy pathetic,
plebian, and antiseptic.
He should have suspected
they were heroes in disguise.

I used to love that show but
now I am a grown up,
so, though I like to look back,
smile, and really laugh
I guess I’ll have to pass
on that old loony toons
madness.

In my younger days
there was pain
and a rage
that would raze
the world away;

A deep injection
of sorrow infections,
coupled with
disappointment,

and when I erupted
I kept almost all
of my volcanic outbursts
to the form of exercise
or other means of
self-hurt,

because I did not
want to cause
anyone
the same
sickness
of anguish
that I suffered.

Whether it was
waking in tears,
punching solid objects,
or working out
to the point of
exhaustion,
purging my stable
of demons,
what a
painful exorcism.

Now,
I am healthier,
and I only engage in
a less brutal regimen
in comparison
to deal with my issues.

It is in my dreams
The flowing stream
The ghost in the machine
Light pulsing
Life growing
Not knowing
How or why
Who we are
My finger flicks my face
Impulse or predestiny
Thoughts become me
Or I become my thoughts
I cannot say for sure
But it is fun to think about I think

It is a rough day.
Two homeless men
stand guarding
opposite sides
of a busy street.
Our eyes do not meet
because I do not
want to see
humans in need
right now.

My eyelids fight
to stay closed
while I try to
stay awake.

Stranger strategically stray
in a sauntering way
from one street corner
to the local liquor store.

Cars rustle up
clouds of dust.
With rust on their buts
they pitter putter
out uneven percussion;
Their weird music
makes me think
I have fallen asleep
and started to dream
about a world were
old west and modern tech
are starting to blend.

I down three energy drinks.
Then my shift ends.
I drive far enough away
to find a safe place to park
and catch a quick catnap
so I can make it home safely.

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 traveler is home.
Season’s end finds him
safely sequestered in
friendly and familial arms.
The distances now bridged
allow him to give
that which he sought
and achieved at great cost.

The traveler is home,
unpacking his treasures,
unloading his wisdom,
given in writing
and spoken in person,
silver proses
not wrapped in bows,
but human woes,
truths in experiences
parlayed part of the way
and interlaced
with the fictions he traced
to spruce the narratives up.
In return he receives
handshakes, helloes
how are you doing,
and where have you been.

The traveler is home
but that is not enough.
Love cannot tether him here
and even in polite conversation
when he is facing
those he loves
his eyes search the distance
planning the perfect parting moment
while longing for adventures
and new stories untold.

Even when the traveler is home
his mind is already back on the road.
Before he washes his cloths
he is already ready to go,
so every single hello
is just an unfinished goodbye.

The traveler is only home on the road.

The wind bends the tall brown stalks
of some unknown plant that I
am unable to identify.

The Earth is art. A production of natural forces projected to projects beyond our basic comprehension.

Sometimes I forget the heart of me; that little boy who dreamed of love and fairness. Sometimes the road darken, the heart is broken, but eventually I come back to the core of me. I am a child of light and love. So come dance the dance of humanity with me, grow and live to see the beauty in truth and our potential. We can be better.

I don’t want to fall asleep
Cause death is not that far
From the other side of wakefulness

I’m not looking to date ‘em
Or wanting to hate them
Not bothering to debate ’em
But I am sick of the women
Who stick with the bad men
Cause they think they can change ‘em

Who's to blame
for the fact that
this world is gone insane?
Is it run by the inane?
I need to ascertain
if they have an *** for brain
or are they snorting aspartame
like it's *******?

Poor poetic friend
wasn’t self-respecting
kept on doubting
what she was doing
so, I told her,

You do quite alright.
As far as the amount I write.
Well, I do not have much of a social life,
because I like the quiet nights.
Plus, my job provides more free time
to create free rhymes
then most nine to fives.

You meet in committees
with shareholders from
war contractors
watching them proclaim,
“We need more money
and less oversight.
We need to expand our
external influence.”

Their words spread
like the bubonic plague.
Such a phage,
yet they still say,
“We have to delay
China
and Russia
from doing the same.”

So we put up
the TTP,
while the drones
we made
invade
other countries.

You say, “we are
the only people
who can save
the whole world
and it will take
business interest
to truly preserve
our military power.”

You say……

I have to turn you off.
I have to turn away,
because my tears fall.
They are tears of rage.
You never hear me
no matter what I say.
So, ******* America
you are not great,
stop putting your greed,
inhumanity, and stupidity
in display in a parade
of such extremely
violent charades.

It is tiresome
a wasted effort
reaching out to
the wrecked refuse
of humans who abuse
people who have
already been
terribly misused,
tortured, or suffering losses
that would break you
straight through,
then in two.

Flesh rots.
We forgot
the truth,
but you
try not to
think about it.

Getting by
is busy work
that keeps us
distracted from
what really hurts,

A nine to five,
a family unit,
a wife a child,
a job to go to.

I don’t want to
but I have to
remind you.

It is made of
wood and metal
fancy folded fabric
full of regret
and stiffness,
of roads not taken
parting paths
forgotten
with people
who got
lost on them.

You constantly
forget this
so, I have to remind you
to appreciate its
opposite.

Till, you take your turn
to get eaten or burnt
by your ******* coffin.

There is pain
At some points
Piercing pain
In some places
This fierce pain
Is a searing bane
A dark stain
That feels as if my feet
Will shrivel up and bleed
It is mind numbing
Just not numbing enough
To cancel its physical form

Nothing is scarier
then the quiet,

the depths
in which
we buried her,

a house leveled
for destruction,

a mind made
for feats
of masterly
reflection,

but the silence
brings
a sleek streak
of greasy grief.

So, we seek
relief
in a cacophony
of stimuli
facebook,
youtube.

Mind unglued
and brought to
a state of
passive chaos.

Until, the next time
when solitude
dissolves into
a pernicious flea
that is nibbling
on me
leaving
daily droppings,
of filth and doubt.

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?

Im not angry only disheartened. I offered you a universe of wonder and you chose a dull road of uninformed and camouflaged conformity.

Poet’s passions
are prevalent
but lesser men
classify them
as deadly sins
denying the
black ink within
that boils to the brim,
forcing her or him,
to take and bend
words to their own
passionate whims.

I need the night
The lack of light
Let’s me focus
The quiet
Let’s me focus
Engaging
The inner me
The inner beauty
People have yet to see
I need the night
Because it lets me be
Free

There was pain and self-destruction
a medicated nightmare of misunderstandings
doctors demanding that I be sedated
because they hated
my child hyperactivity
my playful disposition
and questioning nature
my poor nutrition
and the affects of a mother’s violent behavior
so at eighteen they put me on Paxil
drugged me up and I didn’t sleep
for almost a whole week
which made me suicidal
lessened the chance of
my overall survival
I spent a week in a hospital
a month or two in a group home.
Then less than ten year later
they gave my brother
the same medicine
and those drugs
nearly did him in
they sent him
to the same hospital
not ever asking if
the prescription
caused this ****

She sleeps now
With her wilted roses
And crooked
Cracked sidewalk
Such a broken walkway
Gentle gardener hands
And piano fingers
Plant and play no more

Barely beyond seven years,
I was a small brown-haired boy
biking in a small town.
Till, I found
a little feisty dog
angrily yapping
and snapping
at me
when I tried to be friendly.

Older by three or four years,
walking out of the housing
down alleyways
on my way to school.
Till, I met a big dumb dog,
friendly enough
and playful to boot,
just a little too rough
as it nibbled at my shoe,
then tugged at my pants.
It would not let me get away
scraping my legs
and making me late to school.

Almost thirty
working at Diary Queen,
dating some creepy girl
who was really mean,
and had a pit.
Poor dog had been abused,
kind of aggressive
when it wanted attention,
kind of dangerous
if you had your hands up,
bit and scratched me
a little too much
playing just a little too rough.

He was slow and slurred
in a stupidly stumped stupor
and in my naivete
I cared for him
because of my innate
sense of sympathy.
Until, the thieving
and harassment
finally took me
to the limits
of my patience.

It is a cold-hearted comparison
but I liked those dangerous dogs
more than that **** and ******
addict.

I am the sin barer
goat supping up
the soupy bread
that you spiced with
your lies and violence,
to achieve spiritual purity.

I watch and transcribe
the things that you do,
recalling and retelling
the horrors you committed
throughout time.

You ****** the memory
of our greatest tragedies,
all those atrocities,
white sheet warriors
burning crosses
and lynching men,
all those right wing
fanatics who spew hate
and vote in
the corporate supporting
politicians,
all those war hawks
hawking bombs and drones,
all those burnt bodies buried
beneath those broken homes,
all those charred broken bones.

I cry out but just as I am
about to reach you
your rusted blade slices up
and inside my tight gut.
Warm viscera falls through
sloshing out greasy and sloppily
on the grassy meadow beneath you.

How easily I become the repository
for your sick story
as you sacrifice me
to rid your self
of all those memories.

I do myself great harm
seeing the long arm
of the War Department
and all the innocents bombed,

while preachers and Mary Kay moms
go about their days.
I shift the rubble and clutter
that covers the internet.
I look for things,
I won't forget.

Forcing myself to see things
that make decent human beings
weep with grief and indignation
children lined up, bodies in bags
small faces wearing the veil of death.

I take myself to the brink of tears
and cross sorrow’s sick threshold
to learn and share my despair;
Hoping that like-minded hearts
will stop
what violent people have started.

To think and dream
remembering a place
where we've never been
pondering the sparkling
pond we never swam in
or the heat from the
crackling fireplace
we never snuggled
in front of.

I rush to thoughts of you,
a reflection of someone
I never truly knew,
an omnipresent
perfect female companion,
a lie I tell myself.

The same lie
that dies in the reality
of knowing you will
never love me,
only to be resurrected
by hazy half remembered
dreams.

Cause the memory of
a never was
or never will be love
is sickly sweet,
as unhealthy
as the corn syrup crap
the food industry
has been feeding me.

My sugary affliction,
farcical fantasy,
addiction of desire
which affords me
moments of relief
from the reality
of our sick and
hateful society.

She is in part
a viper,
a poisonous plague
upon my heart,
venom spitter
dark adder
damming me
from a distance,
crumbling my
resistance.

She is dangerous
but I do not mind,
I find I like that kind
of danger.