I find that many times in my life
there has been too much fear
where fascination would have served me better.

It’s not submission
but a positive disposition
towards those in a position
to be friendly
or a thorn to me.
Hopefully,
I can spread
positivity.

Such a brutal braggart once brandished blade
cutting core through knave and slave
in power mongering machinations
through acts of war and devastation.

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

Unfortunately, I frequently find though I have traversed the roads of my mind struggling to understand myself, and my own emotions, I am still subject to the intents and judgement of familiars and strangers.

I am one foot out the door,
one fools folly chasing more.
I am the *****
chasing explicit pleasures
strange acts of leisure.
I measure myself
when I feel like it
when I get excited.
I do what I want
not a reflection of others
or a perpetuation
of local infatuations.
Desire is fleeting,
fulfilled leaves me free to be
who I am or who I want to be.
It is the same you see,
so close to perfectly free.

From higher heart I dare aspire
Loving thine eyes now flushed with life
Lips locked in my mind less for lust
More for their moistness and brazen fullness
Hands tenderly touching my aching ego
I wrap myself within your kindness
Use you as a cover to smother my body
Wear you like a perfectly polished chest plate
Two threads woven tightly together
Flesh on flesh to douse this infernal rage
Softness to soothe the sadness of my soul
*** to satiate my addictive nature
With healing hands softly stroking
You calm my heart no longer broken

Life is the lead of the century
The best role we were born to play
These lines are what we breathe to say
Struggling to live today
Only to die tomorrow
And all that went in
To how we got here
Each struggle
Each generation
That birthed the previous
Stretching all the way back
To the beginning of time
Is the only miracle I need
To feel like I am
Part of something divine

These brick buildings
are built up from
the ground
wearing empty porches
with no sound of
family conversations
or love.

I render a tender defeat.
Submit to the dudes who
manage to control you
with hateful lies.

Blood has sown its sickly seed
Sought to plant born to bleed
And in the photos that I see
I observe the devastating crop

My dance was discordant
Animalistic, trembling persistent
All flesh and bone made to be passionate
Holding in one hand
The hopeful destruction called love
And in the other fingers ****** facts
I gasp choked by the dissonance
Holding out hope while trying to be realistic
All I could do is dance to my own madness

I am the malcontent
The sentient
Flesh that breeds
The need
To plant my seed
Biochemical
Desire

However,
Beneath the superficial
There is a deeper well
A wanting to wantonly
Wave myself away
From the rational
Mind that I saved
Let myself be swayed
Caught up in the wave

Subsumed under the moon
To touch and be touch
To look at and be seen
To hear and be heard
To love deeply
And see that sea
Of emotions mirrored

To find my poetic partner
And not merely be
Someone she needs
To make it to the next step
I want to be wanted
More than an outlaw poster
But with an illegal passion
Deviant and proper
At the same time

Two bodies of the same mind
Consumed
By the nuclear
Smoking mushroom
That leaves us choking
Till passion is spent
And love is stillness
A sleeping form
That I can keep warm
And safe

The beauty that held me hostage
Was scaled dreams
Fire breathing armored wings
Green eyes glowing in the night
Green fire
Green streaks across the heavens
The beauty that held me hostage
Was a vicious predator
Ripping its prey asunder
Limbs and bones crunching
Chomping violently
Nipping at me closely
Turns me ghastly almost ghostly
To know such beauty
Could be the end of me
All it takes is one misstep

What savage hunger gnaws upon my flesh
Rotten soul seeking sweet rest
Aching chest seeking loving breast
Painful lungs seeking beloved breath
Yet in each false step I find myself starved

It is better to delve into the darkness
When I am restless
To trace a thin line
That tracks back
To all other conscious minds
In my own timeline
Revisiting people I used to be
Those ones who are no longer me
Completely lost in seven year cycles
Fractional deaths in the form of
Complete regeneration
Till not a single original cell remains
And all that I have is my name
And memories
But even the memories change

Why do we not raise our voice
in the exaltations
of eloquent speeches
that elevate
human beings
search for the true meaning
of this mean existence?

Why do we elevate
false cloth symbols
while celebrating
the sacrifices
of the subjected
and suckered
masses?

Why does
the angry incoherent cries
of a madman
overshadow
the million more
who struggle for
a better world?

Why do I bother
writing these words
knowing they
will not be heard
by many
and of those few
who
even deign to notice
most will ignore
in favor of
more interesting diversion?

I am the forgotten butterfly
The friendly fairy who does not cry
For being passed by
For being left behind
A nice guy
Ahead of his time
Loving in secret stanzas
Smiling and idling
While potential lovers
Move on with another
And the wings become ornamental
Flutter, frozen in the winter
Crack and crumble
Frost bitten and forgotten
Beautiful but broken
Till waiting and loving
Leaves me all alone

The dream of love is a sweet ache
Imagining her lovely round face
Safely held in my embrace
Cupped like water in a desert
Such a treasure

To hold her hand
To say I love you
Without expecting her to
Echo my affectionate truth
But feeling my heart elevated
When she smiles back
And says me to

To collapse in
Pleasurable exhaustion
Satisfied with the day’s end
Hugging her
Under the covers
Letting my warmth
Ease from me
To her cold body

To sleep and wake
Seeing her soft face
Knowing we
Will do it all again

Welcome to another year
of pursuing my supposed
state of physical and mental
superiority.

Welcome to another year
of watching the world
dissolve right before me
as morons run it straight into
another apocalyptic attitude.

Welcome to the cessation
of deep and thoughtful creation
as each heartbeat breaks down
and each friend falls flaccidly
to feed this already rotted ground.

Welcome to the fruitless
endeavor to enlighten the clueless
as I become the best useless artist
of my dying generation.

All ego and fluff as I stuff
each page with my grand intent
to pursue the betterment
of every single human being
that could be served by my creativity.

Then, I welcome myself
right back to this reality
remembering that nothing I do
really matters to the universe.
I am just a speck in the cosmos
with a slightly bigger ego.

The brown leaves curl in
Response to winters cold winds
Dry grass is frozen
Green brown and stiffening
While patches of ice
Hijack the sidewalk
And make tripping fools
Of those who are racing through

A kingly stature makes peace
Does not feed or free hate’s beast
Nor ties it to a leather leash
But through wisdom find its’
Causes for fury turn to tranquil release

Stench muted by froze form
The winter flakes that frost his fur
Greying from delayed decaying
Slowly thaws on the edge of spring
Allowing the cycle to resume

Random waves of wind
ripple across the water,
while wild birds shiver
and it is not even winter.

Darkness and chaos
played out stupidly before us.
That seems to be the story of everything,
lately.

Despite the delight, but brief interludes
with you few fellow poets who
brighten my life with your  words of lights.

I fear that like climate change
we have already lost
and all that remains
is to succumb to the thumb
of greed and this
broiling summer heat.

I project my heart
out into a universe
that does not reciprocate
said empathy.

Twilight falls, and I can see
stars twinkling in infinity.
Atomic explosions
push out plumes
of nuclear energy
but they don’t give
a **** for me.

The sun that shines
does not mind
if I live or die.
The buds that bloom
from the thin brown branch
will not be bothered
if I fall victim
to some horrible accident.

The massive mountain
with snowcapped tops
will not be moved
or stopped by the loss
of little old me

I am less than a flee
in the monsoon reality

They can **** you
long before you retire.
A sore muscle
becomes a blown-out knee
compounded upon
every other ache
and blistering pain.

No sleep
cause you work
almost every day
doing it the
addicting
cigarette,
coffee,
caffeine,
and
nicotine
way.

Stress,
till, tension
numbs,
till, the beating drums
barely thud
then beat no more
ceasing before
you even hit
sixty-four.

Now you wonder what
you were worrying about
retiring for
when we are barely surviving
anymore.

I have the aims
of a famed procrastinator
who is perfectly positioned
in the place of
comfort that I prefer,
while I remain undisturbed
and also undeterred
from my lazy guy mission.

Life has, is, and may always be
a series of triumphant heartbreaks
Challenging me to be better to be better
Challenging me to be better than I was

Today is dull
practically
colorless.
I am dumbfounded
and dolorous
as I ponder these
tragic bits
of alternating
emotional states.

The castle cut
a harsh stone figure
with the winds
of this icy winter
piercing its
outer layer
and winding its way
through deep
cavernous corridors
seeking candle created shadows
and forcing them to flicker
and dance.

Rapt waves of water moved
with the wind’s will as well
brushing up
against its base
then backing fast away.

I was the mayfly there
to observes such splendors.
My life, less than a day
in eternity
but I lived long enough
to gift these words to thee,
golden goddess
sweet guardian
of the flying castle
that finally fell
somewhere near
the heart of my
imagination.

Anxiety is a flower that blooms
painful frustration
fear from insecurity
insecurity from uncertainty
or vice a versa
hurting me by blocking sleep.
Acid build-up keeps me
from resting comfortably
and takes me farther away from
my sanity.

In pain our skin is thickened.
Fear causes pulse to quicken.
Getting the feeling we’ve been tricked,
so we harden our defenses,
strengthen our immune system.
Inoculated with heart break
After deadly heart break,
until, we become invulnerable;
Losing the ability to feel anything.

Life is chaos
Not a controlled lawn
Neatly trimmed
Green skin
But wild vegetation
Free flowing weeds
Not some zoo
Or domesticated
House pet
But hungry creatures
With predator eyes
Living to get by
Lest we forget ourselves
We are the weeds
And the wild animals
Wearing false pretenses
And pretentious suits
But the hunger still waits
The dark beast still beats
Beneath
Our human demeanor
Chaos

Truth is the pursuit of our higher self;
Not Spiritual but intellectual,
empowering the ineffectual
with the information they need
to decide what, what they perceive means.

In loneliness
I long to lock lips
Spread your legs
Slip into your hips
And drink infinity
From your body

The urgency of desire
Sacs of hormonal anxiety
Directing me subliminally
Sublime ecstasy
And anguish
Lavish pain
Pulsing in the member
Ready to dismember
All conscious control
Hands on flesh
Or flesh on hands
Two ways giving
Relief
An atomic explosion
In which two crazy creatures
Find calmness and contentedness

Am I
the self-styled
selfish child
who was wild,
or have I gone
beyond
that person?

Self-crucified am I
saw a red flower fall and bloom,
one rose in an abandoned road
unfurling its petals before noon.
I made myself a modern martyr
sacrificed purely for the god of me;
hanging from a bleeding tree
singing psalms of redemption
that no one else ever heard.

In the photo, I can see
a metaphorical
version of me.

One leave
restrained,
chained to
a puddle of ice,
near the end
of its
brown
withering life;

Like it
I am chained to
a withering society
which is
holding me
in its cold grip.
Till, I taste
the wet tip
of death’s lips.

It has been ages
Dyslexic pages
Words blur
And never find
Their proper place
From my mind
To the blank space
But I am not ashamed
I write when I want to
When I feel like it
And if the faucet is dry
Well that’s ok
Because tonight
I’ll probably pop out
Three or four more pages
Or not

I am a caffeine addict
that won’t kick the habit,
that makes my kidneys want to rabbit.

These four walls
are not made
to save
but built
to blockade
and enslave.

This cave
we engrave
with our strange
collecting ways,
soon becomes a
self-selected grave
for our histories
and all of our
distorted memories.

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.

Silver streaks of starlight
come racing through the sky
causing tender tears to fall
briefly from my eyes.

Tiny drops of water
paint the cement walk
a darker shade,
as me and my grandpa
watch the chalk circles
that he made
become another color.

Warm wrinkled hands
hold me up to tickle
instead of accepting a hug,
yet still remind me I am loved.

A soldier’s flag
and five-rifle salute
sees someone I love
disappear permanently
from my view.

The shooting star
is gone before
I knew how much
I would miss it.

She is a walking heartbreaker
In pictures, words, and lust
Tears form flowing outwards
Falling faster and faster
I sit foggy eyed and find I must
Distract and extract myself
From her painful poetic presence
From her deep dark hungry essence
Sultry and sulking for another lover
She breaks me so quickly and easily
Once a regular communicator
Now I barely register
Perhaps it is better for her
And a lesson for me to lessen
People’s ability to infiltrate my heart
For my sanity I unfollow and unfriend
But occasionally go back there again
Like biting my tongue to see
If it still hurts me and if I will bleed
I find that she still holds to strong of a grip
Over my heart and mind

Here is a truth
when I do
what I do,
by not reaching out
to the few who
used to care
to stop and share
their time
and stuff,

then why should I
expect
when I get
back to myself
that they
or anyone else
would give
this ghost
any notice
at all?

The arc of our life
is a queer covenant,
burning out the porcelain
colored, electric smoking oven
that we were cooking
useless crap in.

It is a cloudy carnivore
A beast that uneats
Odin’s one good moon eye
Returning light to
This once barren
Night sky