This world isn’t much.
It’s actually pretty bad
and this population of
people make me so mad,

but every once in a while
I’ll find some art to make me smile,
and get me through
the rougher times.

There’s greed and corruption
corroding all I know,
like an acid that’s dripping
burning my throat.
So, all of this horror I see
is hard to swallow,
and sometimes it makes
it even harder to breathe,

but every once in a while
I’ll see some kindness
that makes me cry and smile.

This reality is way off key,
but I can still hear its discordant melody
singing so many strange verses
of inspiration into me,
makes me love more humanly,
bringing out the better parts
of my torn and tattered humanity
and maybe that is all I need
for now.

I know that
the sun will
still shine fine.

But that
ain’t how
it feels now.

I know life
will return from
winters revenge,
and when
spring
comes back again
that vitamin D
that I need
will replenish me.

But the days
keep getting shorter.
The nights keep
getting colder
and I keep feeling
older and older.

I know I will
feel less stressed,
depressed,
and ill
when I get
a night’s sleep.

But at this moment
work is keeping
my sleepy time,
rest for my mind
hours behind
this long shift.

They murdered the romantic in me,
cut him so deeply he had nothing left,
no blood or organs, no hopes or dreams,
leaving just this floppy lifeless thing.

One knife at a time, in each point
his heart’s affection would find
pure ******* and devastation,
stuck like a pig and drained

put on a hook of pain to be hanged,
one big heartbroken meat sack,
one more rejection like a sword
larger than expected but he took that.

The proffer of perfect prose and
presenter of poetic affection,
princely pauper pushing daisy daydreams,
with rose petal cliché schemes.

Pink prickles, portly pokers
that poked holes in his swollen
but oh so hollow heart.

Then in the end
this sloppy sack of skin
just up and blew away.

They push and press
tightly pressed against
almost every inch
of my flesh,
while the lights and music
are pulsing.

I try to breath
but my body is tense.
I do not like
all this erratic movement.

They all look nice.
They are all the party type,
pretty girls, and pretty boys to.
They like to play
and move to the loud music grove;

But they are too close.
They bump and sway,
as I try to move away.

I can barely breath
and all I see is insanity.
They call this a party
as they move with the DJ.

There is something in me,
a very primal fear.
My urge is to scream,
move, and get out of here.

I feel exposed,
I hope my friends know
I tried to go
to this party to have a good time
and be social
but every bit of my being
is screaming for me to leave.

I am pretty sure I am panicking.
This whole crowd isn’t natural,
it feels so predatory.

So, I slip out
and texts my friends
as I end up leaving them.
Once again,
I am the boring one.

The grass is wet and warm
from last night’s storm,
dangerously slick
but there are certain spots
where my heel still sticks.

Places where it
takes a little effort
to free myself.

There are vines
of people and time
that intertwine
with my intentions,
sometimes for the better
other times
for stuff
I'd rather not mention.

But no matter
when or where I am
there is always
something pulling,
deep and urging
like the tides
that are calling
my sea body
back to salt water.

I try to stay,
talk and play
with those I love
but there is just
something
that makes me
need to be
moving
even though
it might be
extremely lonely.

Listen to the sounds of drumming,
that is coming through.
Baby, I am the predator
that is hunting you,

super serial killer,
crazy ****** hummer
of a creepy tune.

When you hear the sound of knocking
you should runaway,
cause toe tapping maniacs
in the carnival
are coming today.

See the sad clown,
and watch the ****** carousal.
When the lights go out
we will all fall then crawl.

The melody is haunting
like those glowing eyes,
semi-circles spinning
in the darkest night.

If it was the devil
that would be a relief,
but this is something darker
then an ancient angelic creep.

Hunger and jagged teeth,
congested growls,
nipping at my feet,
fur so thick it engulfs everything,
when I turn around
and look into the mirror
I see that the beast is me.

It’s a circus of terrors
with too many tops to count,
and there are new nightmares
in every brand new town.

Little zombie dwarves
that claw the ground
riding decaying ponies
with flesh that falls
from their ribs,
while bits of viscous mucus
slides down the strong mans
chiseled vampire grin.

Steeped in all of this horror
how will anyone survive,
and to top it off this is
Halloween night.

Goblin fingers grab you,
laughing at your terror.
You might get a way
for a moment,
but running
will take to nowhere.

Sleeping eternally silent in the void
where no one comes back from,
a place no one can avoid
forever.

You are a musical epiphany
that echoes gently in my memory,
the tiniest of tinglings
in all of my extremities,
a vague but pleasant recollection,
a strange lyrical collection
of poetry the inspires me
to rejoice gratefully.

You my dear are the highlights
of my imaginative nights
and queen of my daydreams.
Elusive as you may seem
you still bring me
soft syllables of sweet sophistry.

So, I gift to thee these words.
Yours to do with as you please.
I release all this artistry
into your gifted hands,
and let what will be
come graciously unto me.

There were erratic outbursts
of rage and violence.
No bruises, but welts,
all the pain that was dealt
wasn’t as bad as what I felt.

There was depression
and parental inflicted
isolation,
a barren wasteland
of being forced to face
a life of submitting to
the beast hidden from the view
of everyone but me.

There was manipulations,
a parent taking
what sustained me,
that which helped
keep me from killing
every inch of my being,
of driving sharp things
into my skin
and letting all that is red
flow out from within.

There was years of
debasement,
and a parent
that blamed mistakes
on the figments
her religion created.

I wasn’t a bad kid.
I didn’t deserve it.

As an adult
I strive to be the essence of
compassion and kindness.

But I have no patience
for the parent
who did this,
and feel no obligation
to keep her around
or pursue a new relationship.
She can keep her distance,
and we can both go on living
our own separate lives.

It doesn’t come easy,
but harrows the soul completely,
those murderous men
beast masters wearing
army fatigues
that bomb everything.

Children, and parents,
dead or dying
while family members
crumble crying.

Politicians parrot
strategic obfuscation
of crimes against
another nation.

Water sources stolen,
democracy denied
when it does not supply
capitalistic outcomes
of wealth for the
already really wealthy.

There are real monsters,
call them soldiers and leaders,
killers of the poor hungry people
who were already struggling.

There are real monsters,
businessmen
who are profiting
from the wars in
other poorer regions.

There are real monsters,
ones that we vote in,
that were bought and paid for
by those who want more war.

They paint the world red,
while we go merrily
ignorant to bed.

You heard what I said,
but you will just
stuff it in
a box you never intend
to be opened again
and forget it all.

Today is the death of hope.
It sees these leaves fall to gloom
and all that was spring
loose its sweet perfumed softness
as bright white blooms disintegrate,

Watches the clock tic tic tok
till time collapses and grief stops,
all moments ceasing,
all beings no longer being seen.

As all winds carry in
the burning stench of carrion,
and bitter stinging rays of radiation,
clouds spitting sickening poison
as mother nature screams in frustration.

Thus, the memory of humanity
recedes in embers and ash
burnt so quickly
and gobbled up as fast.
Till, only the void remains,
to mark the space where we
once rose and fell.

It is not dreams of space exploration
that pull me from my comfy bed.
It is not grand heroic battles
that keep me dreaming deeply
as something brilliant
stirs within my head.

I am not certain if it is hope
that moves me lumbering
like a starry-eyed fool
always falling forward
failing but trying to improve.

I cannot say if it is fear
that pushes me on
while time devours
every past second
of sweetly flowered
and cherished moments,
succumbing to the numbing
of distance and distortion.

I do not know why I struggle.
I have longs since lost the notions
of fairness and love,
social drugs and idealism
do not override
my late-night fatalism and realism.

In truth I do not have anything,
nothing is mine cause all is transient.
Even these words though poignant
are less then digital dust
in time’s furious
and unrelenting movement,
marching on beyond everything.

She is a black haired freckled faced
memory that I would have waited
many lifetimes to share a love with.

She is a tender ghost that has grown
into an adult I’ve never really known,
and even though I to have gotten old
a part of my heart still holds
onto the dream of loving her.

She no longer knows me,
and that is a tragedy
that makes me weep
grievously.

We are no longer children
who can believe in fairy tale dreams.
Neverland can not make us
immortal youths,
only death makes us
eternally young.
So, we never can
get back to that
old loving feeling again.

I long for freedom,
but maybe a little attachment
an attraction of passion,
gentle and arousing,
a fire needing dousing,
that burns with urgency,

a relentless urge to see
someone I desire greatly,
someone who fascinates
with the art she creates,
and thoughtful debates
that help me generate
great ideas.

I long for another’s eyes
to flash with surprise,
because she was
attracted to my minds
and kind heart,
but beneath the sheets
she sees muscles that please,
a shape configured
by hard work
and delivered
for her personal pleasure.

I long to know and be known
to reveal and be shown
with a partner of equal quality
who sees the value in me.

Passion, and love
interspersed with creativity
and compassion
is my fantasy.

Drop my body in the briar
because I’m ready to bleed.
Take my flesh to the fryer
because I’m ready to feed
all those souls in need
of poetic nourishment,
and sweet artistic fulfillment.

I’m done with impediments,
done with settling for all of those
dangerously dry and ***** bits,
when I bring the best poetics.

So, cut me, bleed me,
shake me till I give
all that makes me live,
dripping drops of brilliance,
so you can be blinded
by my radiance.

My ego overflows,
and its still trying to grow
stretching out my clothes
like I’m the incredible hulk,
the big green brute who knows
that all that muscle, hustle, and flow,

well, it doesn’t do much
without the right get up and go.

I am actually pretty tired,
dull and uninspired
so I sired this verse
to shake me from
the curse of having
nothing to say.

I just wrote a poem
that was nothing but play.
Why not?
It meets my quota for
one poem a day.

So, I drop the mich
and saunter away
satisfied with this word play.
Leaving this world stage
shocked to silenced awe.

Your life is a loaner,
and being born in
a specific nation
puts you in hoc,
under the scrutiny
of those who control
the weekday work clock,

The same guys who got
all the politicians bought,
well they think they own
the work you’ve shown.

So, you stay all day
and work extra late,
till you are exhausted,
till it takes your health
and your mind,
well you’ve lost it.

You work all week long
and if you’re lucky
they will let you rest
on the weekend.

You do this for your family,
but you barely ever see them.

Till you are no longer breathing,
or you beat the odds and retire,

but you probably won’t.
Most likely you’ll expire
on the job, long after
your heart and soul
vacates that flesh
those working hours stole.

It was marble mess,
shattered stone
and ****** distress.

It was so confusing.
If you are asking them
they’ll say that
it was a tragic accident
that left those men
trembling.

Button pushing
tragedy
unreality,
because in this piece
I turn fiction
into poetry.

I take the normal responses
I spent a lifetime observing,
use strange alchemy,
and make short
snapshot stories;

Shift and distort
magic metaphors
to make them contort
to what I believe
is a truth
others need to see.

Thus, this was a calamity,
crowd forming
a fake flock of family
making a community
from a small sub-section
of humanity.

To see some
unnamed thing
is not what I am pointing to.

To understand how we
can share a reaction
then after that
still walk away
from the unity
of human suffering
stumbling back to
our shacks to do
what led to
the same sorrow
we just viewed.

Tomorrow
is today
and they
will not think
about the pain
so, I will not bother
to name it.

Like life
there is seldom
a satisfactory end
or a reasonably
easy origin
to understand
all that keeps
happening.

Don’t put me down,
when I ‘m not around,
don’t inflate my ego
when I’m playing the clown.

Please just be real
while we are here,
just tell the truth.
I need it to be clear.

Don’t want any flowery words,
if every line is a lying verse.
Please don’t paint this life with
colors that are unable to mix and hit
the marks they are trying to make.

I may write fiction and poetry,
but despite my grand artistry
I just want someone
who wants to be real with me,
someone who is lovingly honest.

Hello embittered fighter,
nighttime neck biter
who inspired
more monstrous stories
then all these gory
modern allegories.

How do you do,
you shaggy dude,
who howls at the moon
racing with all that
ravishing wolf prowess
as you go prowling
for your next victim
or late night
kibble nibble.

Hey there my yummy mummy,
how does life hang around
that shriveled form
time has bound
as you try to bandage
your immortal wounds,
while stumbling
and bumbling
with incoherent moans.

Hey fish face
lets race
to the bottomless black lagoon
where dumb surfer dudes
go to party
but end up sleeping with
the fishes,

and to my friend Frankie
I thank thee,
for lately
I have lost that old
monster loving feeling,
but you got the spark
that I needed to bolt back to
that old monster movie,
matinee madness I missed.

Somebody’s daughter
is standing on the corner,
covered, almost smothered
in several layers of
***** old winter clothing.

She has mastered the art
of begging with carboard pleas
for something, anything to eat,
while stranger’s have mastered
the art of never seeing her.

Further down the avenue
somebody’s son is sharing
the same sick despairing
hunger pains, and ragged wares.

****** features slightly uneven,
but no one is really looking.
No one ever truly sees him.
So, he scratches his brown beard
and plants his feet where
he thinks he might find
someone with a kind
and generous disposition.

Hundreds of cars roll by
in the day to night sky
with only handful
of hands out the window
to offer him
any compassion.

I don’t know how to hunt,
and I am less then adept at fishing.

I cannot fix mechanical stuff
but I’ve mastered the art of *******.

I got a gift for creating laughter.
I’m an awesome singer,
but a sub-par social actor.
I’m an ok artist,
and a masterful writer,
a decent observer,
of human behavior,
and an above average fighter.

So, if this is the end of the world
and you are looking for useful survivors,
I would not pick me first.
Even though, I can keep the mood lighter.

Even though, I wish it was
the federation that I love
which we lived in,
I know it is more like
the dark empire of oppression
that we exist in.

Instead of,
grand scientific explorations
made to expand
our humanity
with science, philosophy,
art, and poetry
we are subject to
the dark depressing view
of watching the wealthy few
work toward expanding avenues
for their prestige and power
to grow exponentially.

Instead of, refined officers,
like Captain Picard,
we got an army of
dumb storm troopers,
thuggish brutes
of ill-repute
that do not serve
me or you,
but work at the behest
of the E.U
world bank, U.S.
and other United Nation’s
corrupt interests.

So, we rebels few
who dream of being
something new,
who dream of freeing
all of us, and all of you
are ****** to live
in the dark side.

To be lost adrift
in a life of pointlessness,
to sink not swim
giving in
to the darkness,

knowing
that no amount of growing
will guarantee
one ounce of eternity,

that all which was lost
cannot be recovered,
only shimmering
reflections in our
collective memory
connect us to the deceased.

Brother, friend,
sister, father, mother
all figures trend
toward hopeless ends.

We are subject to
and subjugated by
a fear and certainty
that all things die.

This why tears
leak from my eyes.

Though this isn’t blood you see,
you are taking every inch of me,
disintegrating my loving being
and turning everything
I ever was into a colder thing.

You preside over my demise
as you present courtly lies,
trembling with greed
and hatred for the parts of me
that you despise.

But, I do not die, nor do I rise, and fly.
I merely dissipate in smoking shades,
growing intangible in increments.
Till no one can see anything
of the man I used to be.

I am gone.
Far and wide
I roam,
but still
I long
to find
my way
home.

A voyager
in this vast expanse,
a performer
in this
tragic dance,
I spin and twirl
on a world
that moves me
against my will,
farther away
from my history
and the roots
I once felt.

I move,
each step away,
unable to retrace
and find that place
from which I came.

Still the stars
call my name
tugging on some
deep and worrisome
instinct
that says
you will never
go home again.

I am working on my obsession,
getting ready to maximize
the level of my videogame guys.

It’s an hourly endeavor
a corporate game that is
supremely clever,
for its frequent firings
of the dopamine
neurotransmitter.

So, unconsciously
I am driven to spend
hours on end
thinking about
or playing
and sometimes paying
for a game I don’t need

I am the happy new year.
I bring you pain and new fear.
It is anxiety that roams near,
making me a broken vacancy
sign that blinks stay clear.

Happy new year to you dear.
Isn’t this fun son.
We haven’t done
much yet but I bet
we won’t forget
this unless we’re dead.

What a wonderful beginning
coming on the end of last year’s ending.
We have been working and bending,
saving and straining, staining our hearts
now it’s time for a new start.

Happy freaking new year,
and it better be or else you will see,
cause this isn’t someone threatening
this is just the new year beckoning
come on in friend.

This is where the year begins again.

He’s a huffed up
tough stuff,
bulbous
but head,
shifty show pony
shuffling up
cause he thinks
he is so well-bred.

He’s a bad boy nuisance
with his lack of patience
and eloquence,
no verbal skills to speak of
cause his language
usage
is at less then
age ten
level.

It is so frustrating
cause when I go on explaining
why this situation
is so degrading
people just say
I am player hating.

What is it
to visit
such explicit
anguish
upon
one
whose family
and nation
has been
vanquished.

To compound
sins of violence
on the bodies of
those who were loved
but no longer
linger on here.

When the carnage comes
on the beat of
wicked war drums
does anyone,
but me
sit around wondering
what all this chaos means.

As shattering screams
follow collapsing buildings,
bringing in nightmares
for years and years.

As the household is demolished
a whole family line finished
in one horrible instance,

what the hell is the purpose
of all of this horribleness?

We are all flowers in the end,
meant to bend,
or break
and go dancing in the wind.

We are all particles of lights,
crashing against time
like waves crash against the shore.

We are all snowflakes in a storm,
fluttering flurries that will melt
when it gets warm.

We are stories, minor memories
that are fading,
fading, fading
still glowing,
but knowing
that the days of dimming
will come,
that we will run
straight into
me, you, and eternity,
into
me, you, and infinity.

I imagined
the softness
of two lips
sharing a moment,

the sweet pressure
of personal gravities
pulling two people
into a collapsing orbit,

how fingers fit,
how the taste
of her lips
would push me on
to higher states
of desire.

I dreamed
of being one,
two bodies combined
by the passion
that has defined
my species
for quite some time.

I wanted to be
fulfilled,
by a fantasy,
but fantasies
do not equal
reality.

The arithmetic
does not add up
one bit.

So, I settle
for a self-purging
of this urgent
****** urging,
that is overworking
my human system.

Welcome to the duality,
of love and rage.

See there are two strange
men in me,
a beast,
and a fellow of
morality.

But lately the shadows
are slowly blending.
I’ve been thinking
and in that,
bending
to a new understanding.

There is blind violence,
the exploitation of
at risk populations.
There is bigotry
and blatant acts
of cruelty.

Anger seethes,
cause all it sees
causes an aching,
that turns to longing
for some justice.

Love believes
that we can be better,
but in seeing society’s suffering
is transformed.

Passion and expectation
causes a weird transformation,
turning love and empathy
to anger and outrage.

The beast is moral, in all his heartbreak,
and the moral man becomes the beast
pushing back against more brutal monsters.

Crack the skin
see porcelain
bleed lava flows,
hot blood goes
boiling up and out
to singe the stuff
that flops
all about.

Ink splattered hair,
hands clasping
gasping breaths
of pain and despair.

Reality breaks,
her body quakes
with feverish rages
of sickness.

The one who witnessed
all these human tragedies.
Salt pillar people,
small flecks flying in the wind,
those dessert storms of dry death.

Who would buy this
art of pain and destruction,
as we all follow her
breaking down bit by
crumbling bit.

Today is death.
I was promise it would only be
minor increments of damage killing me.
Disintegration in degrees,
a slow erosion of my identity.

Whilst flakes of skin
break from my thin
frame and fly away.
My mind does the same,
but unlike my flesh
does not regenerate.

Thoughts once clear
get foggy then farther away.
Till there is only an inkling
of the shrinking remembrance.
Then it finally blinks out
before I realize that
it was leaving for good.

The person I was
becomes confused
with the man I was
in my youth,
two beings merging
and separating
as important aspects
begin evaporating.

Memories become harder
to retain,
and impossible to regain.
So, I lose my name
on the very same
day I lose the faces
of those I’ve loved.

My mobility goes from limited
to non-existent.
All functions autonomic
loose cohesion
and I go from resting
to wheezing
trying to capture
a breath that doesn’t
want me.

Mind gone,
body follows
making my cold form hollow.

Then the memory of me,
becomes distorted.
My family and friends
lose tiny bits,
and bigger parts
of our shared past.

Till, all who knew me pass.
Then at last
the words I left
are swallowed up
in cosmic chaos,
lost with all that human
flotsam.

It used to be
a very pretty
glass reality
that held all of the
grandeur we saw.

Now we see
sharp shards scattered
as glass figurines break,
leaving prickly parts
to cut and stab,
bleeding the good
and the very bad.

Dreams are demolished
and turned into
razor thin
glass things,
refracting
the reflections of
higher beings.

Fragile feathers
fall slowly down
settling on this
****** ground,
as angels realize
there will be no more
soaring high
in those amazing skies.

The world cracks and breaks
like Humpty Dumpty,
but there are no more
soldiers or horses
to turn this chaos
back into
our former world view.

Holy is the faulty flesh
of friends failing and falling
to the final ravages of decay.

It’s the sweet sensation
of a warm beverage;
Caffeine to enliven me,
tired to waking in degrees.
Till, I am super alert,
but later succumb to sleep.

It’s a mind explosion,
a space explorer
or interior traveler
of the unconscious,
deep unraveler
of hidden truths
that are buried
within me and you.

Holy is the unfulfilled desire
driving us towards a goal
we may never achieve,
a dream we may never
live to see become a loving reality.

Holy is the undiscovered country,
one that does not wait at the end of life
but beckons us forth from the caverns
of our mind to unlock our own inner divine.

A stranger’s smile,
a salty smirk,
a playful break
from life’s work;

Short blonde hair
waves from
several seats away,
beyond my reach
but does not escape
desire’s eyes.

A beautiful young,
pretty someone,
who I will never see again,
is passing, barely speaking,
but listening intently
to the night’s poetry.

Then she evaporates
into a mist of
mystery,
before I get the chance
to say anything
worthwhile to her.

Instead, desire
dries and dies,
a bitter note
choking
in my throat.

The universe is pulsing,
beating and growing,
a heartbeat quickening
to vast to be understood
but still sickly constricting
as if time and space is convicting
me of crimes I have yet to commit
and some sins man has not yet
gotten around to inventing.

So, I am venting pulsars of pain
that rotate out and around then
back in again.
My black hole dilations
greedily absorb all of the light,
and space flotsam,
never returning anything.

Unending, beyond comprehending,
still I keep bending my mind
in strange contortions
to understand humanity’s
and spacetime’s weird distortions.

Outside my window
my unrequited loves waits,
a summer world lit aflame
dances deep in space,
and in love I burn the same.

Outside my window the world breathes
with lovely limbs swaying
in this warm sunny day breeze,
with all those plant particles
that make me cough and sneeze,
but I am still pleased
to see all this outside beauty.

Outside my window children play,
wandering in random ways
working and reacting on instinct,
creating and destroying realities
right there before me.

Outside my window are a million stories,
some written, some soon to be
someone’s great discovery,
some fantasies, others slightly altered
perceptions of reality.

Outside my window lay all possibilities,
to be hates and rejected,
loved and respected,
or feel the world’s indifference
in reference to some
preference for apathy.

You short haired
soft lipped,
round hips;

You shining eyes
of hopeful poetry
that beckons me
in nighttime
and daylight dreams,
wearing a white tee
without any brand promoting
icons on it.

You fellow snow white
pale skin,
blinding tint
that is matching
mine,
so reflective
that I see
all of time
in each crevice
and wrinkle.

You false hope,
heart of a
never was world
that never will
exist
only making more real
the pain I feel
in this aching loneliness.

Better I bang my head
against that
brown brick wall
till I fall
then let my heart break
with the fake
thoughts of you
who are
nothing but
an ill-conceived fantasy.

This world has no place for me.
I am just a blurry sketch
or a sad parody
of someone else’s
old daydreams.

When I look in the mirror,
it’s not me that’s staring back
it’s a stranger wearing a
stained off white hat.

It has been more than ten
years since I believed
there is something better
out there for me.

So, now I just try to be kind.
I don’t struggle with a higher purpose.
Why bother when life is meaningless?
There is no balance to this existence,
and I know that I am worthless.

Are you pleased
with the capitol
that these corrupt
institutions seized?

Are you happy
with the aftermath
of the blood bath
for which you asked?

How does destruction taste,
is it a bitter brew,
to see those who
you slew
in the name of greed?

Tell me did you need
to seed said chaos
to make us,
so ******* great
by bringing in
more ignorance
and hate?

How do you do
with this ****?
How do you feel
about misfits
who don’t fit
with this society
of war and depravity
in the name
of capitol games
that we now call
progress?

Watch this
and tell me
if you really believe
in the American dream.

What a weird world,
of purple hues,
and soft blues
that waver over
the rippling water
as I ponder
this world askew.

See the silver swirls
of salty friends
who fall in and swim
then leap out again.

Watch the madman
paint a trashcan,
making the canvass melt
with the insanity he felt
as all his pigments bleed
but never die;

Being more immortal than I
these thoughts fly,
then descend in
the brains of younger men,
till the poetry
comes flowing free,

and they bring the artistry
of madness
to another generation.

Silly me
for seeking
that something,

for speaking
to someone,
and longing
to connect.

How ridiculous
to try ad be
a perfect
version
of me,

when perfection
only exist
in a minor fraction
of human endeavors.

Everything else
is just relative.

Could it be
sweet dreams of thee
that break me
from the shell
and take me
from the hell
of ignorance.

As merry sprites
split in two
and come together
again in view
like night lights
or those flickering few
glow bug butts that
fly crookedly in the air.

Could it be soft stirrings
that bequeath
a wreath of
rapturous love.

As Puck surveys
a sunny to
rainy blue
beautiful day,
preparing
for the sharing
of tricks
he plans to play.

As cold skin
starts heating
with lust’s
full intent
and the furies
are tame
compared to
the passion
I bring you.

Oh Ariel
what a tempest,
in a midsummer’s dream.

As golden strands
of fantastic plans
unfurl,
I see the girl
who could be
my whole world
but she is
as imaginary
as all of Shakespeare’s’
strange characters.

They are a bright curly few
who come swirling through
the beautiful light blue
daylight hue I was trying to view.

These camera caught clouds,
were finally brought down
and captured in clicking rhythm
as I took and sent them
to a digital prison,
only to be released
for creative behavior
on the social media site
I was designing for later.

I am a limited edition,
a once in eternity
type of being.

I am a sparkling collection
of particles in procession
passing from one
generation to the next,
that will never have
this configuration again.

I am an eternal
space traveler
cause all that I was
came from the cosmos
and will go back there again.

My ego expansive,
and the void
that I dance in
is massive
and will make you
all the same as me in
the very end.

What a pretty little smile,
from a petty little child,
grinning with her disease
milking madness from
the dry cracked coco leaves.

What a viper in the grass
with the sweetest little laugh
a chuckle made to mask
the darkness in her past.

She’s dangerous and you’ll see
come closer and you’ll bleed
cause this is a rat that bites
while you sleep quietly
at night.

I want to write a better world,
but observing it is like trying to hit
a shrinking moving target
that no longer exists.

It is poetic pain exposed
with a wet runny red nose
that tries to sniff this rose
which grows from a puddle of mud and ****
whilst the thorns have scratched and pricked
the thin skin that has not started
to thicken just yet.

It is like having a plastic band in hand
and pulling it cause you plan
to use the tension to hold in
all of the bleeding
that this sick and deceiving
world has caused
but when you pause
the band snaps back
and attacks with fierce pain
causing more blood to drain
then it helps hold in.

It is like punching yourself in the face
to explain the pain of being hit there
realizing quickly no one gives a **** to see
said sad suffering
when there are tons of short videos
that distract all of those
who you long to teach.

It is just maddening.

I am binary,
two beings in one,
a black hole
and a blazing sun.

I am solar rage
and a hunger
as powerful
as Galactus
ready to devour
all of us.

I am curious,
needing the seeding
of seeing and thinking
of drinking
and perceiving,
what is truthful
and what is deceiving.

I am ready to withdraw
but willing to come out,
full of confidence
but hold wisdom
in my doubt.

Like a dolphin
swimming in
the sparkling
ocean,
I am part of two worlds,
underwater gasping for air,
and limited in movement
when I come up there
to take my breathes.

Asleep when I awake,
in a daylight dreaming state,
but as time moves on
silence speaks volumes.
I see isolation
and find sorrow
in this lonely nation
of homebodies.
I am conflict that creates
some things I love
and other things I hate,
ill-defined by this frame
that holds the mind
from which I sprang.

Mostly, I am confused.

T’was the king of crows,
who cawed at me,

pecking and plucking
my straw furiously,
cause he was curious to see
what would become
of this straw man
he once flew from.

Eyes burning red,
whilst mine turn to dread
as a ****** of his brethren
began to follow him
and dig into my cloth skin.

I could not stop them,
with their plucking
and pulling
all my hay innards out.

They had no doubt,
nothing to fear here
it was very clear
because I could not
shoe them away.

So, they knocked of the hat that
was stitched to my head,
and ripped up the fabric
that held my button eyes.

If I was ever alive
then that was the night
that I died,
silently screaming,
begging, and pleading
for the crows to stop
chewing and eating
certain bits of my body.

T’was early the next morning
when the farmer found
a mess of straw and fabric
spread across the ground.
Though, to his surprise
no crows filled the skies
and not one part of his corn stalks,
not one pod, or kernel was taken,
or even shaken,
only my flaccid body lay there
exposed to the cold fall air.