I outsourced
my inner turmoil
to this medium,

all the conflict
of trying to fit
and not fit
maybe dangling
between two *****
that I can’t give.

Rhyming and non,
never posting anon
because even though
I know that
I don’t belong
when I am gone
I want someone
to know me.

My identity
is complex,
crossing
ideas that
are counter
to themselves.
So, I identify
as the poetry guy
dying to stay alive.

She slept
in silent contentment,
the soft saltwater
serenity
moving gently
in a cradling
motion

The silver streaking
salmon school
barely moving
hiding under
the algae laden water
while sinking
into the deeper trenches,

As the cool white
moonlight
reflected
in rippling water
for no one to see.

I used to be a fanboy
With those boxed toy
Played those movies
In my head
Daydreaming instead of
Remaking my own reality
Sitting in a fixed position
No slick transition
To something better
Just wearing my red
Dead head sweater
Never even wrote this letter
Just let life run its will
Right over my heart
Until
I was as stiff in death
As I had been in life

Is it preposterous
to think that
poetry could foster in us
a deeper understanding,
make empathy a commandment
moving us towards
capturing compassion’s actions
like they were transactions
designed to pay for more
good in the world?

Life seldom grants us absolutes
Before the truth of reason
Comparison was treason
Ignoring the fact
That some have and some lack
Was common practice

Justice was lackluster
Politicians and business men

But now with all the information we have
Reason and comparison should be elevated
Inequalities should be seriously debated
Not with flowery words which inform so little
But conceal so much, but with science
Because facts find hidden truths revealed
And there is seldom to much truth

I am coming back
From the black track
Cold steel pikes
That cut the night
Pierced my skin
The pain that I let in
To forget him
The man I used to be
Let that little boy
Come back to me
Victorious

You do yourself a disservice when you forget that we are not separate and in competition, but part of a collective that spans more than hundred thousand years in the past and hopefully a hundred thousand more in the future. Lifting up the weak strengthens the whole, educating the young enhances the potential the future. Kindness and wisdom our the gift of the human.
to all with love

Your humble human scribe
Joshua Amos Graff

There are to many layers

Locks to long
brown with only
a hint of grays to come;
I tell the young lady
please buzz it all off
and make it one
size fits all.

Sandpaper bristles
scrape against
all my grains.
I shave it to find
a familiar face

Water washes away
the filth of
a long work day
but my face
does not betray
the truth
of who I am
or was.

I peel back the years
one wrinkle at a time
as the red lines
recede from my corneas,
as tan becomes pale
and winter pale
breaks down to
summer bronzes.

The weight rises
and recedes
more frequently
then I care to admit
as I struggle to get
back to the core of it.

I shrink,
an implosion of sorts.
Losing memories,
losing words,
losing time,
As I struggle to find
the essence of me.

I go back to the zygote
then split that
and watch those halves
retreating.

As two human beings
Go from needing
to never meeting.

Then back to
the primordial ooze
that glowing goo
that ungrew
to undue
protein patterns.

Then space dust becomes
the unbanging
never attaining
the pure essence.
There is more
but it is a journey
of eternal regressions
that never finds
an end in my mind.

When the flashes few
fell on the fellows
who knew
how to seek
and perceive
the state of higher things
beyond most human beings.
Somewhere
between
the air
we share
and the things
that make us scared
there is
just a glinting hint
of deeper truths.

You are broken
for the purple lines
painted on pained pathways
and other roads that will not
walk back to him.

Even though you
parted your lips
parted your hips
letting him in
he will not
come *** again.

And though you think
that on the brink
of eternal dusk
he will look back
at you
with lust
and love,

He will not
because he never
wanted you as much
as you needed him.

Though I wish it was not
the case
this human race
does not want
an honest human being.

Instead, they want shiny
expensive
status symbols
but all I have to offer
is love and wisdom.

While others fall
to slumber’s whims,
I see the sun
fall and rise again
a furious phoenix
force.

Her eyes are dark and cool
But her words are bitter and cruel
Living lazars like light sabers
That cut with such fierce force
That I must divorce myself
From all the reason I once held

I adore your art form.
Each line is like rainbow paint
upon a rose petal canvass,
Each word a wonder
above and under.
Concealing whilst revealing
eloquent metaphors
With sweet allusions to
The illusions of life we
dance through
in poetry.

All-encompassing spring blooms
that blossom
bright flowers
letting little silk dancers
rise with the wind
and descend again
to the soft soil
of my mind.

The dark
Night water
That ripples
And reflects
The moon
And highway
Lamplights
Looks like
Small strands
Of infinity’s
Reflected hair

The loneliest path is that of an artist who seeks to ferret out unpopular truth. He or she who tries to shake the masses from their comfortable stupor, and help them find a way to rise above the illusion of limitation and restraints placed upon them by their society.

Even giants
have holes
in their heart,
dark shadows
that haunt
the old parts
split valves
breaking from stress,

big biceps
trained for
self defense
against
a monster
in their past,

chest pressing
the pain
others
were expressing.

But these beasts
do not repeat
the abuse.

They use
the pain,

give it
a new name,

and strive to be
ever better
then the darkness
that conquered
other fellows.

No fear,
just leg day.

I’m letting go
To let you know
That I am unsure
What I am thankful for

Some have less
Some have more
Some live
Some die
And I struggle to decide
Why

They agree with me
retroactively,
say they
were always
against the hate,

but I remember when
those women
and men
came rolling in
with their rage,

when they said
the immigrants
were to blame,
when the few
who stood against them
were defamed.

It has happened
again and again,
blacklists,
secret prisons,
social poisons,
marches,
white rage,
fascism.
The masses join in
while we keep struggling.

Then when
peace swings
back in,
when the pendulum
is less threatening
I hear them say
that they never behaved
that way. *******!

I’ll bet their grandchildren will proclaim
“I could never be led astray the same way.”
Then make the same about face.

Satanic goddess oh queen Isis
Aphrodite, my fingers fill her crevices
Twirl and twisting
Leaving us both gasping
I bend to her will
Beg to fulfill
Her deepest desires
So when she sighs
“Hurt me.”
I break myself
Splitting my soul asunder
Becoming thunder
As I crack

I hope that when I fade, when death becomes my bleeding shade, and paleness mmars the expressions on my face, that my words sink into the stream of the collective unconscious and find a permenent place.

There is death here.
The ground bleeds
slowly through
shallow holes
letting small flowers grow
faintly smelling
somewhere between
perfume and decay.

No one stirs to
wipe this dark stain away.
Dirt and stone mark the space
pointing to the place
were all journeys end.

Soft becomes rigid.
The earth dries
slower than
rigamortis sets in,

But I hope they feed me
to the fishes and wolves
leaving the rest of me
to the rest under a tall tree.

Little boy blue
Couldn’t save the world
For or from you
Couldn’t brave the night
In joyful flight
An amazing sight
In super hero tights
To inspire
Give you wings
To soar higher
Even with all his strength
So, for a while
While your lost in the wild
You will have to think
And save yourself

Her feline eyes
are slender slits
of baleful irises
staring with
the ravenous ache
of a predator
ready to take
that which sustains
and entertains.

Oh how cruel the day is.
Slant rays invade my space
because the curtained covered
windows can only bend them
not completely conceal
the light that I feel on my skin.

Partially piercing my eyelids
daylight becomes a strange shade
Of red, orange, and annoyed.

Warmth trumps cool sheets.
Sunny Sunday sounds sneak in
with the interrupting day.
I wish it all would go away.

Bring back the melatonin moments.
Bring back the colors of the night
dark, quiet, and tranquil as death
with my memories still intact.

But if I brought the evening back
I would want to stay awake
cause I love that silent night
and hate that ******* sunlit day.

I will not kneel or yield
in any form or field
to the fallen dreams
we call god.

Why do we allow
these shallow
stubborn *******
to acquire annual annuities
on slick sick
investments;

Like oil refinement
or weapons,
such detriments
to our social health
and our environment.

Will we be able
to restrain
this barbaric disposition
that manufactures
guns and
environmental disasters
with our false bravado?

When the aggression keeps taking possession of your soul.
When you anger and entitlements makes you violent.
When you are licensed by the state which supports your hate.
When your crime happens time and time again.
When you blacken and harden your heart against a group.
When you ignore the truth and our youth who cry.
When the sidewalk runs liquid red then dark dry.
How can you expect me not to see the hatred.
How can you expect me not to see the corruptions.
When I wipe back the tears and find my own outrage
And a part of me almost gives into hate.
Seeing bullet hole tear through my brothers cloth’s
Because every man is my brother
And every mother who mourns the loss
Of her child shot by the cops is my sister
When will this madness ever stop.

I have skin with
nerves clusters
that signal and release
sensations to me
from point of contact
and back
to my busy body brain.

A bacteria laden gut
drives my desire for
sugary sweet treats.

****** urge me
to procreate
not necessarily
in the need
to create
life
merely in
a certain
chemical urgency.

Eyes perceive;
The light I see
is from the sun
to an object
that absorbs
almost all of it
and sends me
what it doesn’t
want to keep.

Hair follicles
soft enough to give
respond to
the vibration
in the air
so I get to hear.

I got a nose
that for most
smells
but for me
is just
ornamental.

And a tongue
that differentiates
different types
of things I taste
on different sections.

You need the poetry
Of a pre-painted reality
To infected you with the disease
Called empathy
To get sick with humanity
Knowing there is no cure
And only the vaccine
Of apathy and greed
Could set you free
from that well released
Read as you please
Better believe what you see
Make us better human beings
Not nearly contagious enough
Outbreak of real love

It is the only salt water
that eclipses the sea,
****** sailing grifter
that took a dump on me,
the cold breeze
that does not chill
or even freeze
but stops all things
permanently.

It is the shuddered breath,
dripping drool
from the tripping fool
who fell to fast
when he found out at last,
a shade of red
not dropping crimson pools
but stiff sniffles
that require tissues
for us to use.

It is the one thing promised
for as long as we live,
as death comes to claim
the ones we love.

Until, time takes its turn
and our loss
makes others burn.

Sleep deprivation,
extreme caffeination,
and frequent urination
to the point of dehydration,
what a dangerous
work combination.

Black circles darken my eye.
There are notes to play,
but my vocal cords are cut,
and I am drowning in
a steaming pile of
my own guts.

I sit observing all those strangers scurrying from events occurring during the day. Still stuck in place, I guard this space securing the most unsecured spots. In a daze I look away to see nature ruling the distant landscape.
Trees with no leaves only spindly fingers form wooden web like structures, competing for space with their sisters and brothers who sport full bodied broccoli colors. White cumulus clouds streak across a turquoise sky racing other grayer layered stratus and cirrus vapors. I long to follow, flying as fast or faster than those amorphous beauties.

My pupils contract coming back quickly so I can focus on where my attention is supposed to be. However, my mind wanders and my eyes follow. Weird humming wires bisect the skies. Gone for a moment, I force myself to return.

I hear next to nothing. My sight affirms said silence. Closer than my cloudy kin a flattop building mimics blacktop shapes and colors. Cars clutter the cigarette strewn parking surface. The gravely parking lot cracks like a fault line leaving little fractures where thin green plants perk their heads up and out, sprouting from the concrete covered earth.

Near day’s end I find my focus again. Strange reflections wobble in dark windows as employees drive in to replace their almost friends. The shift ends and I follow strangers out. The herd thins as we diverge on different streets taking our own roads home. Nature follows me back to the hotel sweet, then to sleep, and finally into my dreams.

As a child I asked my mother
to mend my lonely heart
to accept and understand me
as I am and not as who she hoped I’d be.

Please do not turn your pain on me
inflicting wounds so deep
that I refuse to ever trust myself.

Eyes aflamed with tears.
Sinuses clogged with snot.
Without comprehending
without words I asked for her patience
her kindness, to secure my innocence.
I asked for safety at home.

Had I known the violence she would sow
planting row after row
of red marks and broken hearts
I would have found a gun
and a safe little corner.
I would have asked no one
and taken the peace I deserved.

I wake in tears.
My heart is a scarlet mess,
broken sutures,
split stiches,
torn incisions
not from surgery,
but from the
precise pain
of losing someone
and remembering
said loss
when I awake.

I do not begrudged
this hearty heart
that feels so deep
and drowns in part.

Knowing that strangers
may exist
but once we meet
we are no longer this.

Once we break bread together,
shed tears together,
walk in wavy roads
Of parallel pain together,
though we may be quite strange,
we are no longer strangers.

Thus in our mind’s connection
the only real option is to lessen
the suffering of one another.

She is certain
she just wants
to be friends.
So, I shouldn’t
touch her skin,
give her all those
back rubbings
cause it is all
so confusing,
using oxytocin
like a **** addict
and it’s not like
I asked for it.
She just requests
I massage her feet
and I comply
obediently.

As a child I was devout
Faithfully glued to
An idea with no truth

But I spoke clearly
Understood the fictions
Better than most adults did

Like little girls understand
Barbies, My little ponies
And monster high dolls

Like grown women
Who still want to be
The princess they saw
On Disney

Like little boys understand
GIJOE, Spiderman,
And Superman

Like grown men
Who still want to be
The Batman they saw
In movies on tv

I clung to this fair unreality
Hoping it would be redemption for me
Because the bruises and red marks
Demanded I believe
Insist I must need
A superhero Jesus to save me

While I was drowning in a sea of sin
I had to beg the divine to let me in
Noah’s Ark,

Hoping that god knows my heart
Was full of good intentions

But the bathroom florescent lights
Made me feel ugly
Like everyone was judging me
With all my pores and acne
With all the scar my mom gave me
Though she hid them perfectly
Just beneath my skin

I thought god would save me from her whims
Or at least take me away to be with him

Instead of leaving me in pain’s den
To lose those faithful delusions
One heartbreak at a time
One history and science lesson at a time
One standup routine and comic book at a time

Till I lost my taste for the divine
While at the same time
I was just plain losing my **** mind

It is a game of uncertain variables. Tears cool my heated cheeks. Years of pain are distilled into a moment of anxiety.
A hug could hold a mirror to loves last affection. This may be the last good bye. One friend only makes it on holiday weekend, one friend makes it more often, one little brother, comes weekly, father remains behind.
The sounds of a strange city, holds no friends or family for me. They are hundreds of miles away. I am scared. It is the fear of the unknown, the fear of the phone call that says,

“We are sorry for your loss.”

So tonight, I will wait for work to start. My heart will race rapidly with all the anxiety my mind can muster. Even then, if and when I find slumbers silent rest, I know I will still wake with that same ache in my chest. Till, I come home again, off the road for a couple of days.

Love is a landfill
Filled with landmines

And I am a gun shy
Guy
Tip toeing through
The garbage to
Get to you

But one wrong step
I am rejected
Feet slip
The mine is tripped

I am shredded
Once compelled by hope
Now I am impaled
On shrapnel

And with each beat
The metal gets deeper
The more I love
The quicker I die

Till the lonely guy
Learns how to not love
And each little death
Helped him decide
He needs to be by himself
Rather than committing love suicide

Deception is the art of media, church, and state. It should not be the foundation of how human beings veiw and treat each other. That we are seperate is a deciet. As humans we are all bound together, not in some magical web of destiney but as a human collective with a social responsability to make this world a place of peace love and understanding; instead of a world driven by self-interest, and fear.

I don't need any emotion regulator.
I am the poetic pain appropriator
reading stories and saving
the suffering for later
to share with my fellow agitators
and other hopeful aspiring humans.

My civility and patience
is a burden that
hangs tightly
around my neck,

a constricting cord
that chokes me
till I am raw
with reserved rage.

Tiny tuffs
of black smoke and flames
burn me
from the inside out.

Till the pain of the world
drowns me
in a salty sea
of grief.

While others thrive off greed
profiting from pain and destruction,

I wait for some
sort of civil revolution,
or karmic retribution
that never strikes back;
Biting my tongue
till the red squirmy thing
just jumps right
out of me
and I cannot speak.

By god’s grace
We save face
Displace
Rationality
Restore banality
Drive out
Our potential
To become stagnant
A waste of
The human collective
Which could be
Working towards
A brighter future
From this dark
History

Deep are the eyes that devour my soul
Soft onyx surrounded by emerald lightning
Hypnotic expressions of ****** obsessions
Lips grasp, mouth slurps, tongue sends shivers
But the eyes cause quivers of climatic fury
I gush with lust’s completion
Moving with unparalleled muscle memory
I toss her fair form roughly against the bed
Rip the last barrier from her body
And lap up desires sweet juices
Till she to finds completions
Then I make her come again

You were the chaos
of swift currents
sending me under
in a ridiculous
blunder
as I was consumed
by my desire for you.

Angry, jealousy,
all things I thought
I had discarded,

but the brick wall
that was ****** red
which I built up
to protect myself
crumbled
in your clumsy presence
as you intruded
in the life
I had carefully constructed.

Sleep deprived,
driven by emotions
which I knew
clouded my rational mind,
I still longed for you;

And the thought
of the loss
of something
that never was
caused
black waves
of anxiety.

Until, today
when I found me.
I am not hurting
or heartbroken,
but working
on knowing
that some attachments
are better than others.

You can take my home
repossess my car
steal my cell phone
and break my heart
take my pad of paper
but I would just
put the pen to my skin
or memorize the verses for later.
You can’t stop me
from making sweet poetry.

I am stalled.
Fatigue
enfeebles me,
and I believe
I will lose
the ability
to perceive
and achieve
the full potential
of my inspiration.
  
There is a slight pain
from eyestrain.
Thus, I complain
in such a mundane way
about how my eyeballs
sound like sponges
when I rub them.

The winter is not normal.
A spectral fog fills the horizon
making all dreams of
what lies beyond
seem exotic.
Meanwhile
skeletal trees,
whose leaves
have been reaped
with time’s sharp sickle,
sleep silently
unyielding
to any breezes
just a part of
the season’s
sick cycle
of birth and decay,

My eyes still strain
in a light pain,
but at least the fatigue
did not prevent me
from writing again.

It is a gush
of cultish greed
that sees me seed
these gray streets
with cement
and litter.

Searching for
the stars that glitter
in commercials
and window shops,
the tyranny
of humanity
swells in my heart.

Callus to the collective
because of the things
I seek to collect.

Then with each purchase,
and each pleasure pill
I use to conceal
the depths of
what I truly feel
I lose
a piece of
the empathy
I once cherished
and loved.

Till, my leather worn face
turns bitter
and the last of my humanity
escapes me
because of poor scheduling.