My quick wit
put me on her
stupid hit list,
but her hitmen
took their best shots
and missed again.

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.

Evolution is like a rubber band ball
starting small and simple,
but slowly expanding,
changing while keeping
each piece that came before.

I watched you fall
and start to crawl
staring up at that
old boring brick wall
wondering how
you will ever
be able to climb over
the top of
that orange towering
obstruction.
You never stopped
to see that if you
wanted to continue
your journey
you could just walk around it.

I would be bold
And for the care of you
Come dancing
Out of the dark blue
Clear the clouds
That catch your tears
And sings a song of love
Every verse a pure pursuit
Of me loving you

There is a wrinkle
in my heart,
blood flow slowed
to naught,
chest tightening
in anxious observation,
facing
a thousand people
suffering
loudly and silently
at the same time.

This is the frame of mind
that breaks the branch
that reaches for hands
which never come.

Heroes never fly by
the midday sky
to swoop in
and save the children
from their depression.

This is my obsession
the passion of pain
painted in prose
and poetry,
me pathetically
trying to reach humanity.

I should take it more seriously.
Yet, foolishly I continue rhyming.

It is out of love
not callousness
that I continue this
poetic struggle.

That which hurts and haunt us
biting at our skin
gnawing at what’s within,
may begin strengthening
and thickening our skin
as well as our will power.
Though it may hurt at first
you may find in time
that the pain is your friend.

I just want to let you guys know. I have read a lot of poetry books, but I seldom find the kind of quality and depth in those books that I find here and on tumblr.

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 have all day,
the digital display
of my computer
will not display
the games I play,
or let me watch any movies,
It won’t even boot properly.
So, I go outside.

Walking, the sun warms
one side of my face.
I brush my hand
against the bush
that sits
just this side of
a ***** gray fence.

Thin limbs of light brown
poke my darting digits
that dared to ******,
observe, and explore
the texture of the
yellow green
miniature leaves.

I take my time,
see strangers stray
in a laze
walking slowly
away,
hands interlaced
in an unpracticed stage
of adolescent love.

The private school black top
is broil an egg hot,
but unlike long ago
I do not let my toes
touch that searing summer heat,
I do not need to test me
anymore.

I drive out to the country
just to relax,
and follow a road
that takes me back
to my brother’s
grandma’s and dad’s
house.
I haven’t gone there
for a very long time,
my mind says
I should go visit them,
but then I remember
they are both dead

I try to enjoy this
disconnected day
but, every hour or so
I catch myself thinking
I should look that up
when I get home,
or I will watch this,
or play that.

Flint Michigan
still doesn’t have
clean water
to wash dishes in,
drink, or bath in.

But our president
can afford to
take expensive
vacations
almost every
weekend.

Puerto Rico is
still recovering
from a hurricane,

But we can
send foreign aid
to Israel
so, they oppress
Palestinians

Lots of people
on the street
going hungry,

But we can
afford tax cuts
for the extremely
wealthy.

Infrastructure
needs a lot of work,
veterans need
better healthcare
along with everyone
else that lives here,

But we can afford
billions in weapons
and spending on
more wars.

My blood is ink.
At least I think.
The last time I saw it
was when I tried
to cut myself and die,
but ended up
only staining the kitchen sink
with bits of runny poetry.

There was a man sitting at the docks with a boat as he watched a young boy drown. The drowning boy cried help me in gurgled tones. The man with the boat at the dock sat and said "I will pray for you." He prayed patiently waiting for an answer while the boy drowned.

They rack my brain
with loss and pain
so I take this rage
and start again.

Crack my spine
and break my back
I will not stop.
Tare me in half
explode my heart
don’t make me laugh,
I will not stop.
I will not fall.
I will not drop.
I will not crawl.

I’ll keep on running.
I’ll keep on rising.
Even if I lose it all
cause I’ve lost before.

I will not stop.
I may cry.
I may eat poison,
but Ill sweat it all off,
till, the day I die.

The weary traveler
Though a wakened wanderer
Will wait
Wondering
Pointing to possibilities
No longer pondered
Passing strangers
Strays
Who straighten their tie
And silently cry
Why
Only to be answered
Nevermore

Soft water falls
and hits the leaves
moving me
like the forces
each drop used to be,
wet recycled energy
that cleaved
stone formations
so slowly.

This is how the spoon stirs,
how the soup swirls
in several spinning
concentric circles.

This is the plump
juicy red tomato body
struggling against
the gravity
of this liquid reality,

plopping when it drops
jalapeno sauce
dripping little hots spots.

This is one spicy dinner.

Purple plastic flowers
flow and fall over
the brick enclosed
raised border
around the brown
house.

Too tired to walk
so, I mumble
while I talk
and stumble
over the cracks
in the old sidewalk.
Too fatigued
to even think
about how I miss sleep.
So, if you try and
trip me
I’ll probably fall gratefully
into slumber land.

And the river cried
For the years it lost
Running in one direction
Salty tears
And ocean breezes
Letting time sing its’
Sorrowful song

We are marred
marked to march
and make more war,
while the whole
world watches.
They may know
quite well
what we are
warring for,
but the media
makes us fools
by masking
the heart of
darkness
that greedy men
send our children
to fight for.

Well, the trip is done.
I’m down to earth.
Head no longer
kissing clouds.
My feet hurt,
cause they are
kicking up dirt
instead of
dancing in the air.

A harden heart
Won’t heal
A Broken bone
Might mend
Flesh maybe malleable
Skin maybe valuable
Joints may be flexible
Soul maybe sexiable
Desire maybe satiable
You maybe able
To overcome
What makes some
Unstable
May turn the table
Maybe a better man
Than me
As long as you retain
Your empathy

If i withdraw, and do not call for weeks do not be offended or think some offense needs amended. This is merely my nature, to seek insights through silent moments of introspection and to work my demons out of my system with a pen and a gym membership.

No life has a happy ending because every life ends, so why not fill what precious few moments we have with all the love we can give and take.

National pride
is a lie
the rich spread
to divide.

There is violence on the street
but it’s all foreign **** to me.
Pavements cracked until it bleeds
but that stuff never touches me.
Bombs dropped till no one moves.
Government pay out corporate dues
fat cats swell as they sale
the stuff we use to **** ourselves,
but since it never reaches me
I am free to ignore it,
justifying the lie of America the great and free
while I never ever explore
the life of the children who are poor
and what they are driven to do
cause we ignore them until
they inconvenience us
or there is a profit to be made.

I speak of pain
That wears red rain
Slashing my wrists
To open soft veins
See sprinkles splatter
Call it sidewalk paint
The blade does not burn
As much as that social poison
We have been imbibing
Relaxing while lying
So there is no surprising us
Because those we love
Have lost the same wars
Not bombs and mustard gas
but razor thin red lines
That beat and bleed out in time
Taking the last of our once beautiful minds

I sit pondering
old autumn days
when I would play
my cassette tapes,
while my OCD
would entreat me
to organize my
comic book collection.
Then do
my comic book card
collection to.

The body is a blank canvas
That awaits life’s paint
Pink, brown, or jaundiced bases
Blending in to black bruises
Red lacerations, and light blushing
Freckles of brown splatter art
The heart of red lips affairs

Nostalgia,
is a swift serpent
that brings tears in.

I am fractured
These dream I have
Manufactured
Do not sway
Me away from past grief
Do not lessen
The happy days
We have known
The smiles that were
Softly shown
Glowing
Till death did part
Familial hearts

Is there wisdom
to be unraveled
in the words
that she wrote,

perspectives
of a watercolor world
that I did not know,

You say caring
and loving
makes us vulnerable.

Well, I wear my weakness well.
Armor cracked,
I exposed myself.

I would not be
another commodity,
or come to see
all human beings
as separate entities.

So, when they weep
more cracks envelope me.
When their scars
are cut open again
I find myself bleeding
with all my human kin.

I have not perfected
the art of compassion,
but I will never completely master
the art of passing
a stranger in pain
without feeling
part of that sorrow.

Like Vincent did,
I go where the people are.
I see them in
their simple glory
and though I cannot paint
with brushes
I work the white canvass
with my words.

My heart melts.
I cry to myself,
and if you call it a weakness
then you are wearing
the wrong armor.---

There are many things
I long to live and see.
Till, death makes
a dark caricature of me

let love slip in
behind the onyx eyes
pass the lips of love
too young to bloom
as I fall so fast
and leave this room
far too soon
before I felt
her loving boon.

For she is but fifteen
reading me
posthumously,
longing
like I did
when I was her age
for an artist
of older days.

Let fame come to
pay deeper dues
for the time I spent
was creatively used.

Let those amused
be elevated to
and if my death
is all that stands
between
the longevity
of my poetry,
then send me to
an early grave.

How fresh the fields
of pain I feel
has yielded fruits
bitter to the tongue
and slowly rotting.

I am not the bar fly
beer drinking
kind of guy,
can’t stand the noise
of wild girls and boys.
I prefer the quiet nights
but there does not seem
to be a place for me
in this Pokémon Go
***** loving society.

I want conversation
while other guys
pretend to be patient
so they can slip
their small *****
inside her drunk ***
or drop a sedative
in her wine glass
and become the next
Bill Cosby ******.

I can’t seem to face this
rambunctious crowd.
They are too loud
and I would rather
get to know a stranger
or simply talk with a friend
then try communicating
over aggressively loud music.
I want peace and contemplation
but other people are partying
like they are on death row
cause they know
that they will have to go
back to work.

This scene doesn’t work
but that doesn’t make
them jerks
it just means
that they haven’t evolved enough
to catch up with me.

It is those depths
that people share,
painful truths and all
that make people human
and tragically
beautiful.

It is the pain
that connects us,
when we realize
we suffer similar
sorrows,
these experiences
open us up
to empathy,
making it
harder to be
cruel.

Tonight is today.
Summer rays
send us into
heated shudders
as sweaty men
hobble back in
like little children
to their air conditioned
living room.

It is the mind of a menace,
a monstrous figure
that shredded the air
opening
a doorway
from nowhere,
and released
a horrendous creature.

A dark and grimacing face
protruded
from the splintering
of space.

Fierce features
found their form
revealing
long sharp teeth,
and lighting like
eyes
which
further pierced
the dark skies.

A tortuous tongue
tormented
the villagers below,
violently lapping them up
to devour their bodies
and tasty souls.

Till, Helios,
the lord of light,
intervened
with a raging stream
of sharp solar power,
pushing this dark beast
back into
it’s nightmare realm.

But the crack
is still open
so, the beast
may come back
someday.

The butcher’s bane,
the ****** mess
I came to see,
a cracked carcass
laying displayed,
fetid, and crumbling
with rot
because the butcher forgot
to take a day off.

Now,
beneath the dust
the stench of
a week’s worth
of decay
sprays
out of
the doorway,
tempting strangers
who pass that way
to wretch
violently,

while familiar faces
face regret
for not checking in
with their old friend
the butcher.

She writes sentiments
made to soften the hearts
of harden men and women.

In silent interludes
she scribbles
gentle syllables,

Rich whispers
fill my ears
hushing
the harsh pains
I feel
like torrential rains
on a raging forest fire.

I desire
to find
myself inspired
to write
something
as deep and beautiful.

I lust for larger words,
or perfected prose
to put something of me
and humanity
back into
the mind of strangers.

A dark numbness
comes creeping.
It is a deeply draining
Autumnal day.
The black clouds
part and weep
salted tears of red.
The grey stones,
perfectly planted
in awkward rows
mark the resting spots
of the decaying dead.
Each rock reads
thin identities,
shallow impressions
pointing to passing affections,
remembered by no one,
but random passerbys.
The day dries
and the grey, white
clouds die.
Now a bush bleeds
crimson colored leaves.
While other small trees
bereft of leaves
wear red berries.
a brown orange leaf
hangs precariously
from an otherwise
bare branch.

If the pain passed flowing to the past which spawned it
To be replaced by an angelic face of graceful love and calmness
If the conflict that burns me to the core
Where countless nights were spent in venting
All those hopeless aspirations that came to nothing more
Than flimsy water marked paper that was lost in a monsoon
If I loss all the losses that once consumed me
To become perfectly happy
What would become of me
Because I fear I only thrive in my misery

Watch the withering wax work workers
Plastic people who barely move
Barely groove love to lose
Not knowing what they are choosing
Just smoozing and boozing
Darts, beer, and harder shots
Then it’s hangovers and back on the clock
What a shock
The cycle goes
Work and party
Work and party
Work and party
Till the hardy
Cannot swallow another shot
Till time cracks the clock
And all that they got
For a lifetime of work and parties
Is an open coffin

I let the wind ride me
Sending waves of beauty
Tiny lakes, thin tributaries
And pond like puddles
Destine to dissipate, disappearing
But for now they dance
In their dirt and gravel

We are flesh made for leaving
Or being bereft for being left
Made for deceiving or being deceived
By those who claimed to love us
Those we thought we could trust
Trial by fire they tried and lied
Leaving us only sad broken ****

There are clouds
That obscure reality
While I wait
For the most
Probable
Eventuality
Knowing
That immortality
Is a lie
We like to tell ourselves
I wait to fall
Scrape my knees
Against the cold concrete
And hope that each time
The coarse grains
Will give way
See me sinking
Into a shining world
As hardness envelopes me
Vapors conceal
The way I feel
The affections that are real
And I hide a bit to
Till I find the truth
Visiting one friend,
Her or him
Walking and talking
Knowing
That they will be swallowed
That the earth will open up
Time will crack and rumble
Lightning to thunder
Splitting just enough
To take the ones I love
One chip at a time
Till their fate is mine
And I join them
In the dirt nap defeat

What a folly
I live at a fools address,
try not to deceive myself
but give so much
to touch and support
the one I love
with no reciprocation.
I live in the wasteland
of alienation
leaving with the taste
of nothingness on my tongue

Morality and ethics are abstract illusions/delusions that are relative to the place and time of ones existence.