He was
unmovable
as the mighty mountains
that mourned
the melted caps,
sitting six feet away
from six feet under,
refusing to yield to
the unforgivable weather,
unwilling to leave,
unable to cry
because all that was
buried within
had withered and died.

You could be a great book,
not the scriptures
that you do not read
but listen to too receive
imaginary blessings
Of abstract relief,

but in that time worn skin
under those arched eyebrows
there is a story brewing
written by doing
explored in the living
moment to moment.

The text is irrelevant
cause it will never stay in print
only be impressed
upon the breathes
of the ones you know.

It may
change and fade,
or change and grow.

The truth of flesh,

The warmth of touch,

The smell of sweat,

The sound of wet grass
shuffling beneath
cold wet feet,

The poetry of fun

The prose of those
whom we embrace
and others we fail to face,

The grief of loss,

Tendered to experience
So all can appreciate
the wisdom gained
from your mistakes

You can pass it down
in fragments
in whispers
out order
in facts or partial truths.
Because the best story is
you.

Just know
in the name of greed
as business’s
influence grows
you become
less than a cog.

You are interchangeable
in any job.
You can be discarded
no matter how hard
you worked.

Integrity,
Honesty,
Loyalty,
are just
shiny
but
empty
words.

That is what it means
when the free market
rules the world.

The earth is a voracious fiend
swallowing time
as the wallowing swine
eat their own filth.

Ignorance finds
its’ perfect apprentice
as people line up
to devour themselves
one lie at a time.

Spin doctors
spin records
reporting fictions
as reality.
Despite the truth
people laugh
say the lies
feel like facts
and the facts
are a conspiracy.

So, refugees are terrorists.
Whites become less racist then blacks.
“Black Lives Matter”
becomes a racist chant.
Cops never lie.
Every time
they shoot someone
the victim was definitely
going for their gun
and climate change
is not our fault.

I sit back
crying
because
I tried to debate this
believing people
are not idiots.
It just seems
that I am losing
and the doomsday clock
is not a nuclear metaphor.
It is a countdown to
the return of the dark ages
or complete environmental
annihilation.

Some people don’t want to be saved
Don’t choose to be slaves
But somehow manage to remain
Tethered to the tired ways
Of their tyrannical societies

It seems to be the consensus
that we weary hearted workers
spent this work week imprisoned
in a system that does not value
the human condition.

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

It is a lonely kind of quiet
unfamiliar too most
social hearted beings,
but I prefer that silence
to the discordant apathy
of a professional work environment.

A flock of
propeller seeds
fall from the tree
right in front of me.

She is a child of death metal
blood red but fading petals
black hair to match her despair
like the emptiness of the cosmos
as her stars burnout one after another.

She stays up all night
cause it is the only time
she feels free to be who she is
the only place where she feels safe
enough to spare her sparse smile.
Little lithe dancer bending her body
soft and slowly for nobody.

She sings such a sweet wounded melody.
Half siren and seraphim calling out
to her only true love,
some dark anime character
who isn’t half as dark as she is

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

I want to get lucky.
I’m not trying to be
a slick trickster
who makes you
fall in the love with me.
I just want
to fall into
your wet ****
and ******
and ****.
Till you ***.
Then I ***.
Then maybe later
we can chat
share a bit of this and that.
Until the urge strikes again.
Until you bite my skin
and invite me back in.
I’ll call that sin lucky.
Cause you feel
delicious on the tip of my tongue
and I want you to *** and ***.

Being true to oneself means acknowledging who you were, if you do not acknowledge who you were you can never learn from your,  mistakes, striving to be who you want to be so you can grow, and knowing who you are now so you can find balance in the moments between the past and the future.

Time does not care for you or me.
Even years after the trees
sway with the breezes
that once carried our laughter,
time will not remember us
not care or want from us
a single second more
then what we got before.
It is neither fair nor unfair,
simply part of the air out there.
Like the currents that carry
our boats from one shore
to the next sandy beach
it will not be worse for our loss
or much better off.
It will merely be
continuing sans human being.

The fees aren’t hidden just obscured
in a mile of white legal papers
that make you walk a greed growing
green and digital banking labyrinth.

Wars raging everywhere I look
Politician and corporate crooks
Feeding money and bodies
Into the industrial war complex
To serve the will of the world banks

My first priority, do not add to the suffering of the world. My second priority lessen said suffering when possible. My third priority be true to who I am, who I was, and who I strive to be.

I am the bed you fall into
Soft mattress that gives in for you
The covers that wrap you up
Like a tasty burrito
But I won’t eat you
Unless you want me to

What road holds
Mirrors of our better selves
Paths to the truth
That surpass
The myths
Of our troubled youth
And sees us ascend
The celestially steps
Of knowledge, wisdom,
and compassion

What is one act of kindness
against a lifetime of darkness?
One kind word, one handshake,
one smile, one dollar,
one ear, one meal, one ride
against a bad year
or a bad life.
Sometimes it is the difference
between a good day
or a bad one.
Other times it only equals
one moment against
an army of shadows.
Sometimes it means the world
other times it is lost
in a sea of sour expressions.
Sometimes it is the difference
between life and death.

Her breaths are
the flames of
Anubis.

Her lips are
the cold fury
that becomes
the dread
of the undead
in Hade’s domain.

Her presence
proceeding
certain needing
to collapse
makes her
such a sick supplicant
suicidal somnolent
under the inevitable
onslaught
of each empty
underworld.

Please check this link out. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.


https://soundcloud.com/graff1980/earths-lullaby-3gp

Is that a painting,
or is that really you?
Such sweet shading
can those hues be true?
Comic book tinted dreams
make you a practically perfect
human being.

The water is a dangerous mirror.
Under a chaotic wind swept surface
I see myself, almost formless;
Clinging to old memories
like a drowning man
clings to the hope for air.

We wear our weariness on the sleeves of our souls. Even now I to miss the younger me, wondering is he a shadow of what I will be or am I a shadow of what he was.

Today I am not celebrating the greatness of one nation but the wonder of humanity as a whole, and the hope that the illusion of borders, nations, races, religions, genders, and all other distinctions used to classify and separate will dissolve in order to form a more perfect union.

The heartbreak is there.
As we move on
loved ones disappear.
Still, we sing them alive in songs.

Everyone we know
will surely die
and in this simple verse
I sit and cry

My wit, wisdom, and intellect
Burn with the fervor of a lover
Swell with the passion of another
And another and another
Until I am smothered in my awe
Cowered by my mind
Swimming in a sea of eternity
Unhindered by the chains of destiny
I am me as you are you
Beautiful chaos wrapped in fleshy trappings

The mystery and magic of our life is a product of our subconscious. Fluid movements based off of muscle memory, the things we feel and see while meditating, the initial creation of art before you edit it, the recognition of patterns before you even think this is all part of our subconscious processes.

No truth was ever known
And meaning was made by man
Measured us by the seasons
While it bled us all of reason

We faltered as we fell
Stumbled upon ourselves

But maybe if you’re reading this
Whatever madness made us sick
Whatever mental plague
Like greed, fear, or hate
That created this impoverished mental state
Has fallen, letting our angelic nature rise

Maybe we are better
Perhaps we are worse
Only you who read this now
Truly know if we beat this human curse

I feel the energy
It’s poetry
In harmony
With me
Inner waves
Going separate ways
But coming together
In my typing
It’s new age old day
Mingles with today
Oh boy
What can I say
It’s the greatest high
And I love to fly
That way

Perhaps is smacks of desperation
The slacks that act as decoration
But due to economic inflation
There will be no holiday vacation
No exotic island destination
Only financial frustration
And menial mental *******

Unaffected but afflicted, convicted
of the crimes my people have committed,
and all the pain of history that was inflicted;
Sometimes, I get white cisgender guilt
for a system that was already built.

Mass production multiplied
manufacturing jobs
but it mutilated the human mind
turning mankind into robots.

The conversation is deep,
such sweet pleasantries
while I drive her around
wherever she needs.

She may be grateful,
but in reality
she is doing me a favor.

Though she may not know,
may be old, over seventy,
she is dear to me,
former guardian of the library,
and I take pleasure driving her around
when I am in town.

Look how the water
sits.
Droplets
pool in
miniscule puddles,
comfortable positions
on this imperfect plant.

Petals gleaming, and bending in
the summer wind,
wearing light green,
soft, cool, and moist
orange and browns shades
surrounded by a pool
of random stones.

Sleep restless wanderer
Your heart beats no longer
Though your spirit
Was never stronger
Your body had to waver
Later
They will have you
As their savoir
They will savor
Your dreams and ideas
They will cherish the life now passed
But for now
You are best at rest
Not asleep
But merely dead

I’ve been your noble knight
salt white marble pillar
holding you up carefully
while other lovers crumble
under the weight of
your kind of love.

As I drop my drawers
to drain my ****
of yellow ****
I see this
flickering ****
and I am afraid
it might cause
an epileptic fit.

Afraid that I might
drop and hit
the white porcelain tip
that is covered
with a little bit of ****.

I am afraid that
exhaustion
has made me hallucinate,
but it is just a large cylinder bulb
about to burnout.

Give way to this sorry state
and if you claim
that life is but a dream
then I dread the wakening.

For if these scenes
are my unconsciousness fantasy
how horrible
this reality must be.

I long to
recover
the soft quilted covers
that strange lovers
once laid under.

The wealthy will not
cede their political power,
nor give a single inch
now that they are
completely entrenched.

Poor pools form
with black swirls
of dirt and oil.
Puddles push out
expanding
as water works
its way down
from the broken
ceiling.
One envisions
drowning in
the sludge and poison
or imagines
that a crackling
electrical surge
might break
those old bulbs,
but the sparks
never come
and the days go on
wetter for the water.
but, not as deadly
as I thought
they would be.
Like me
they merely are.

I do
Oh, I do
enjoy the blessing
that I have.
Though few
they are
more then
most have been
given.

Does time exist
because of this
gravity we feel
and if our universe
ceases to exist
would it quit
continue, or
stand deathly still?

We find ourselves
in the struggles
in the books
in the movies
in our reactions.

We chip away
and add some clay
to find who
we will be.

Not a matter of fate,
we are not etched in stone
but tempered by life
and all the curve *****
that are thrown.

It is a constant process
of chipping and adding.
Until the time comes
when all the arithmetic is done
and we finally slip from
the form we found.

But it was never
part of a grand plan.
There were a trillion
plus roads
with a billion-fold
stops.

Whether we were lost
or planning the trip
the journey is what
we became.

I would like to be kind and generous
not out of fear of the worst of us
but because that spirit has become
that heart of truth and love.

We rust like a metal chest
taking in somethings
while many things
are forever lost.
The melancholy
music plays
while we spin in
Our porcelain graves
aka bejeweled boxes,
forced to pirouette
in a perfectly repeated
and painful form.
Until, the sounds stop
broken by the crack
that flows
front to back
splintering reality
making our little
ballerina bodies drop.

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.

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