These nightmares
Are black and white
Rectangle pieces of paper
Because colored
Cuts would hurt
Too much

Instead we track
Railway cars packed
People stacked
And dropped behind
Barbed wire restraints
Bare burnt brick buildings
Were soldier’s stole
Pretty clothes
Trinkets, and anything gold

Never forget
The nearly naked numbered men
That barely survived
The acid burning
Of women and children
Starving saints
More bone than flesh
Ovens made to cook
The stolen Skin of their kin

We hold such horrors
Far away
Keeping shallow thoughts close
While Forgetting those
Who suffered such indignities
But this is our shared history
Lessons we need to see repeatedly
So we do not let others succeed in
Seeding the same dark tyranny
In our modern democracy

She is a nightmare
like a velociraptor
rapping from the rafters
chasing after
the sound
of a killer clown's
maniacal laughter.

I've been trying to
avoid her,
that self-destroyer
who tends to
pull me down to
her lower level.

But she caught me
by my dangling generosity
and kindhearted disposition.

I thought that these
were good qualities,
but I think I need to
get rid of them,
so, I don't have to
talk to
that **** drama queen.

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

Grey waters wear
Sun strained ripples
With one hippo head
Less than halfway
Out to a greet the new day
Till the purple sunset
Suffering from a slight
Foggy haze
Loses the day and sets
Far far away

Don’t give me
your troubles
cause I got
my own.

Don’t give me
your reasons
when mine
have all gone.

Don’t feed me
no lines
about the divine.
I don’t need a god
and you won’t
change my mind.

It is a creamy white dream
of soft skin
that blends in
a flow
from her toes
to her long
blond locks.

Her stomach curves
only slightly
on either side
with an almost
perfectly
symmetrical
quality.

Her collarbone
moves in an almost
perfectly straight line
from her small
but strong shoulders
that are well defined.

Her face speaks of
youth and love
with silver eyes
of mischievousness.

Naked form
adorned with nature’s
lovely blessing
gracefully undresses
to share the artistry
of the small ******* I see.

I do not have to look sexually.
Even though a small part of me
stirs pervertedly,
the other part observes carefully
with a deep appreciation
of the bravery
it take to share what I see.

It is even stranger when I read
her poetry of an even deeper quality
because the sexist in me
does not expect to see
such physical grace and beauty
intertwined with a divine poetic mind.

Today is the third
a day to work
cuz I prefer
to not be disturbed
by the holiday hustle.

I don't like that bustle,
so if I can work
through the weekend
to get to the work week
and avoid people
who bore me
then it fits perfectly
with my developing story.

It was a short
but fast shot
that spit from
the tip of
my throttled ****
as I daydreamed about
a pretty black haired woman.

She is sweet and kind
but I know in reality
she would decline
an invitation to tour
my ***** and overactive mind.

So, I take matters into my own hands
purging the pervy desires that persistently
push and perplex me.

Eyes closed
I imagined her with no clothes,
only a soft smile
in the form of a celestially ****
cosmic fury.

I pictured her lips pursed
as she sighs
a pleasurable curse
chiding and calling me
her favorite ******* perv.

Her big bouncing *******
fill my whole mind
just like her
round and firm behind.

Soft lips kissing mine;
This fantasy ravages
my rational mind
while my tongue touches
the skin on the side of her neck
and slowly slides down
to her soft deliciously bushy mound.

I visualize
licking her moist ****.
My tongue tickling the edges of it
as it folds and curls its way
deep into the dark depths of
her desire.
Till, she is ready for
the head of my ****.
I let her quivering ****
swallow the whole shaft of it
moving perfectly
as her naked body grinds
and shifts pleasurably
on top of mine.
Skin to skin,
back and forth
her ******* tickle my chest
as I grasp her tighter
and tighter.
She comes
and comes
as our tongues
swirl around each other
like dolphins dancing
in an ocean of lust.

I dropped my drawers
shake and stroke
as I choked this dope
finishing firmly
in less then
fifteen minutes
and returning my mind to
its regular curiosities.

She will never be a reality.
Instead, it is only me
working out
my ***** graphic fantasies
about someone I love
who will never love me.

If life is a show,
it is one that
goes with the flow,
growing and retreating
with the seeding
of insights
we are receiving.

Rivers shift, feeding
bigger bodies.
Life is change,
but no one
really taught me
how to accept
that reality.

People come
and go
in and out
of our lives
and periphery,
occasionally
coming in for
a reentry,
then fading
into background
static.

Life is for the living
to grab it,
because death
will not grant us
any grand reprieve,
so all I need
is what I see
to go on existing
whilst being me.

-2021

Perhaps, I lack patience.
I am rapacious
for more rapturous
word wonders worked
from your weirdly wired,
but beautifully inspired brain.

You break me beautifully
split the fabricated flesh
that once felt like silk
under your soft fingers.

The camera adds to many pounds
and the mirror man makes me sick,
but my shadow is debonair,
with cool black clothes and a full head of dark hair.
I wish that illusion would stick.

It is the heart of me
that she does not
even bother to see,
a red bridge that breaks
collapsing into
a darker crimson pool,
I set this mess
before her,
expose my scars,
as I worship hers,
whisper gentle affections,
promise fierce protection,
but she turns away
unswayed by the fruits
of my heart,
and I turn away
forgetting the self-love
I struggled to attain
and succumb to
that old familiar pain.

I gave up all my summers
Left my springs
Abandoned my winters
To my wandering ways
To my lonely days
Leaving was easy
Failing was harder
Giving up so much
And all I had left was
My autumnal nights

There are smiles in the past
That bleed through to the present

Hugs and tickles
Running and laughing
A wooden swing
Puppy dog love

Journeys
Began and ended
Pathways merging
And parting
More than once

They play in my memory
Treasures
Better than a golden ring

Perhaps they are the parts
That make me
A decent human being
Because I hope that I am
A good man

Words cannot describe everything so we use numbers to break the noun barrier.

Keep it sweet and succinct
as your heart starts to sink
I will sit here and think
about my feeling.

As I dream about your lips,
long to hold you as we kiss,
then whisper an ocean
of loving truths to you.

But our eyes do not meet
and you do not see
how much I am willing
to sacrifice.

So, we go our separate ways
like our lives are tragic plays
lost in a bittersweet melancholia.

Still, there’s a small spark of hope
that keeps me
from swinging on the hangman’s rope.
So, I write it down as a poet.

I distort the story just enough
so that if you look close
you will know how much you are loved
but if you don’t
no one else will notice.

It does no take a knife to find
the dark sharks that swim
inside your mind
could easily be mine.

The pain you hoard
as your birthright
the jagged sob filled breaths
that wake you at night
could be mine.

Your pain is only a day away
from the shadows that play puppet master
to my pains.

Your anguish may stay miles away
may play with stars that fade
in tragic comparison
to the fields of sorrow
you burn in,

but when you turn in
for sleep
just know that my dreams
still search humanity’s black seas
for our human connection
while knowing that I am easily one
bad day away from your pain.

Three pages behind,
so I look to find
any observation
that will stir
a poetic line;

Like white flowers
on a metal wire
that look like
a metallic vine.

Three pages I seek,
so I listen to
whatever will speak
to my poetic sense,

I hear lots of clicks
as I drive by on
the highway,
then a musical beat
that I cannot place
because it is muffled
and lacks any base.
I pop the top
of my center console
to see a strange glow
as my cellphone
tries to wake me up.

Three pages that I yearn to complete
but I have no comprehension
of what strangers smell,
so I am only left to write about
what I feel.

I slide my hand up and down
searching soft sore spots,
looking to see if they
are too cold or hot
and flinching when
I come across a bruise.

Three pages to complete
it’s the deadline I set for me
every month I try to write
thirty pages of poetry.
Now I only need two
to get up to what is due
this far in the month.

She was a cloud of smoke.
She was ecstasy.
She was DMT,
such a sweet trip
for me.
She was the golden apple,
ambrosia’s kiss,
and all those other drugs
that I never did.
She was a shot of *****
with an orange juice chaser.
Over all she was one hell of
a hangover.

It is the ocean that divides us
as celestial stream that hides
deep inside
a treasured light
that we only confide
in those nearby.

It is a temple of dragons,
fates burning fury
that scorches us
to the core
and even more
before
we rise
from the ashes
of old lies.

It is the night sky,
sparkling
but temperamental
reminding us
we are ephemeral
less than insects
in the scheme
of infinite things.

It is daydreams,
dark and bright fantasies
about spaceships
traversing
distances beyond
current capability,
with artificial intelligence
to guide and inform me.

It is a story
in the form of poetry,
a multi-faced
multifaceted
exploration
of my unknown identities
that I explore,
remaining untitled
because I do not know
for certain what it
is certainly for.

We are all
improbable,
impossible people,
preceding
all the things
we needed
to exist,
our ingredients,
our history.

We are
a culmination
of struggles
beyond
our imagination,
wasting
the faith
we place in
religion
and politicians.

We are
crazy,
lazy,
stupid,
violent,
destructive,
devastated,
prostrate­d
to the things
that should be hated,
fools
that fly
so high
on the shoulder
of older giants.

We are
beautiful
creative,
a spark
that made it
this far.

We are
born to fall.

The grey road is a field
of young and old
metal plants
that are grown
in big buildings
where business men
take the workman’s
daily sacraments
and exhausting sacrifices
and turn them into
automated schemes.
Till this artificial industry
falls crumbling
to the rise of the profit machines.

I am too tired to stop.
It’s too late at night.
I am not scared.
I do care
but I just got off work
and I want to get home.
I pass you by
while you struggle.
I do not see
if you cry.
I do not know
if you lived or died,
and I only feel
a little bit bad,
because six out of ten times
I stop for strangers on
the roadside.

Science and logic trump ancient scripture.

The romantic in me
Wants to dance with her
To take her verses
Undisturbed
Holding thoughts and dreams
Close
Breathe upon cool cheek
Lips barely inches apart
Spinning in a pleasant pattern
Pecking at her poetry
Sharing mine
Paralleled movements
In stanzas and philosophy
Minds as close as bodies can be
Spirit and flesh combining
In good timing dancing freely

I miss sitting on the edge of a dock as the water flows around me, and just for a second feeling like I am moving

He excelled, but at each level he struggled
trying to elevate himself to new heights.
That ambition burned him,
even when it earned him
what he thought he was due
higher wages, better benefits, and more things
so, every day he stayed
at a job, he truly hated.
Every heartbeat aggravated
by wanting more and more
until he collapsed on his office floor
barely even mourned.

I worked but seldom succeeded
making enough to get what I needed
and enjoying what I had.
Though his stone was big
I left an almost omnipresence of positivity
with every stranger who met me,
so I die contently.

In the night
the fountain
spits red light
streams of water
with a little
blinking blue
to skew the view.

You speak of morality
but have no mercy
deserve no forgiveness
when you do not repent this.
Your actions
are etched on our skin,
that flesh camera
that keeps photos within,
as you cut, bomb, and burn them.
Thus, each mark matches
each dark spot of splotches
as your corruption
devours humans and lands alike.

The Moon has no face,
yet it is still a place
we look to find a face.

Life was an empty well
In which I folded myself
Scarred and bleeding
Sorely needing
Some relieving
Yet I was receiving
None
Believing
Even less
Would ever come
I sat decimated
Broken bones
And all
I waited
For a relief
I did not believe in

It is strange to observe people from a distance. I watch  those whom I knew as a child, and find myself wondering how they became so removed from their imagination. They stumble through the daily grind embittered by the struggle to make ends meet and consumed by a desire for more things. Yet they have some how forgotten the joy of running around, playing tag, or reading stories that take them away. What a tragedy.

They want me to believe
that cemeteries
are not delusions
were we seed
the flesh that bleeds
not back to the brown spot
but back to a black box
to let the spirits soar
to the heavenly hosts
right up to meet
that holy ghost.

But if that were true
why would I have to
sit through
this horror show
with no real preview
or proof of the heaven
you claim to know?

Why should I be
forced to wait patiently
while you demand
that I bury my body
in a box that blocks
all that glory
from going back to
the beautiful earth
that birthed
me and you?

I don’t buy it;
Why should I let tyrants
woo me
with words
that don’t match
our true history?

They’ve been doing this
for centuries,
but they are not
fooling me.
Don’t let them
fool you.

I long to feel the elation
and the electric elevation
of desire and affection
passionately reciprocated.

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.

Think of me as a love to song to the world
Possibly poorly written
But deeply felt

The past is our home
Safe and set in our memory
Warm and surrounded by family
And though we may wish to return to what was
Instead of staying with what is
We can only revisit it
With all the terrible grief
Knowing life will never be
As simple as it used to be
And that we can never really
Go home again

Watch out
Do not walk behind me
Cause I am holding back
The dark deluge
Of gross brown gas

Some people seek thier own stagnation. I seek the novelty of new information, and the knowledge i need to shift my understanding if the evidence i percieve requires that of me.

I can only be an activist in words
because my heart refuses to part
with the beauty of art.
I no longer have the will
to struggle in a field
already full of fallen friends.
I do not think we can mend
the walls that crumble and bend
under the unbridled influence of
greedy and already wealthy men.
I do not think anyone cares to hear
how what I feared is already here
and now I am certain we will find
we can only slow this dangerous decline
other ages we’re able to cycle from
dark to enlightenment then back in
and around again.
However, with the damage to our environment
I am afraid this dark age will be permanent.
My brothers have turned my will to fight
into an ill-suited straight jacket
that I rage against but still put on each night.
What I am saying is we are not alright.
We are men, women, and children
already marked for death
because we condemned ourselves
to outdated projections
and ancient prophecies,
instead of studying what it means to be human.
I wonder if you realized you can’t beat the patriarchy
or topple the autocratic institutions
when they are built on the foundation of
the church you go to and the god who owns you
and even though this is supposed to
be a poem that wrote to tell you the truth
I know you won’t listen or believe me.
Thus, I leave thee to thy pointless struggle
so that I can play the fiddle in the middle of
this world that I love
the one you keep on ******* up.

Seven cameras on,
six are fine
but the other
presents strange
blurred colors.
Gray roads are
light blue.
Green trees
have parts
that glow orange
with red outlines.
The grass seems
to be the same shade
as if all the colors changed
were from
an alien landscape,
but I like it both ways.
The straight and the strange
are equally beautiful to me.

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

If you haven’t bled
then I don’t need you.
No pain in your soul
then I can see through you.
That deep blue hue is true to
but your depth doesn’t match
the latch that **** blocks
the brown doors that are locked
and if I can’t get in to your mind
then that is fine.

Just give me the red stains
that paint my human pain
when I try and try again
to ******* before it is to late
to activate your empathy
for all of our human kin.

If I had a soul to sell
or a blade to impel myself
for the betterment of man,
and the movement towards,
the eloquent and grand,
I would wear those scars
with envied pride.
I would ride deep down
into the abyss of time
leaving a better world behind
for the small part I played
in this minor existence
we have all made.

This is just half a memory
A quarter of a daydream
Remembered fondly
As I stare blankly
Through arches to nowhere
Looking back to the past
Where a vine tree
Fought against me fiercely
With whipping strings
That rapidly snapped
Sharp sounding cracks
Opposite of the thunder
Landing in the distance
My feet found mud and water
Then sunk in muddied water
As I fought hard
Against an unseen foe
Kicks that cut the storm
With well practiced punches
That followed in perfect form
Yet each droplet
Was a mighty blow
From some dumb thunder god
That I was fighting off
Till, I finally lost
Because no mere mortal
Can beat an imaginary deity

Whoever loved ordinary
When passion is extraordinary
And conversation should be scintillating
Invigorating new thought and newer ideas
Exploring everything
Not ignoring the mundane
But delighting in the profane
And having everyday
Get better and brighter

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.

When life is to hard and hurts to much it is love and hope that drives me on. When darkness and despair permeate my world it is love and hope that sustains me. So I thought just so you all know when times get tough when the tragedy is to much please remember I love you all.

With a pen *****
that angry ****
defused her heart
and crumbled it.