Imagine and it begins, the mire sired from mind amok.
May have at once mattered, now the imagination is stuck.
Non-commit to all your projects, ideas strewn prettily.
In notebook crumble garland filigree.
You remember, only that you've forgot.
All work you do is nihilistically for naught.

**** that mess, darling. You are the best.
Calm be simple and be ******, indeed.
Even now you work heart pumping chest.
But happy in finishing you're not so keyed.

Back to the doldrums and foot tap astray.
Knit fury with hands excite, colour gone.

Back from the dead, dancing with blushes.
Ego bruised snide, coy imagination rushes.

I enjoy long monologues on the beach,
the warm grains and broken glass
beneath my feet. I can't help,
as dazzles of sun,
drizzles of spitting ocean
make everything
unique.

Hold your breath, children.
God is angry as the tide
rolls in high,
and rolls back deep.
He beats cloth into drapes
and wets the sand.
Once dry.
Cheeks as cherubs,
reddened from cancer spring.

Medieval statues and the moat is free.
Emoted servitude as you architect.
Hold your breath, children.
God is angry again, as father
treads water. Splash panic.
Too wide-eyed and bushy-tailed
to realize the spring Hell.
Of summer decline into
Autumn's work.

Speak to me in truth and I'll know by tone,
I enjoy long monologues on the beach.
Eternal sunshine,
no spotless minds,
as back is beaten by angry
tides.
Speak to me in ruth-less-ness and I'll know by
shone,
weather the weather, children.
He can't help his maddened drink.

I enjoy long monologues on the beach.
Wistful nostalgia too delicate to breathe.
Potent as ocean.
Tides are circumstances,
symptoms bearing no relief.
Bury me at the crest.
Flotsam and jetsam,
sea foam all alone,
no pretense.
Beat me, daddy.
It's okay to hate me.
You made me hate me, too.

What folly is unoccurred reverence.
Strangers proclaim "You're loved!" whence
meaning is absent, context is beside itself.

When did platitudes rate as normalcy
Strangers fake muddle fact lest they be
labeled incongruent socially; with no dispel.

How did conversation come to demean
the capable of haves; have-nots serene
in their comfort of blissful ignorance.

Where did intelligence fray, the importance gray;
the have-nots proclaim, in shaky say, their thoughts lame
A bulb above head lacking the filaments.

Who do these ruins belong to, certainly
let us rebuild. Foundations held by you; me.
The minds of small,
not the small of minds.
The majority is always pushed forward by the minority.

For when the sun burns and turns colden,
The bright yellow spurns from beauty golden,
to a lack of interest for a system
relying on light to pour; listen
though sound travels less
in haste, it makes our bodies bounce.

For when the girl is burned and trounce
The bright mind spurned from evening gown
to a lack of interest to assist him.
He relied on her light to pour; her to listen
though sorry travels, lest
after distaste, it makes us pronounce.

For when a mistake is burned into history.
The stone cold as etched again, and sought.
Good will may be borrowed, entrusted, stolen,
but rarely bought.

For when a daybreak creeps into horizon.
The stones thrown as glass houses brought
Goodly upon their foundations,
in the naked eyes of all sunspot.

May those coloured fractals of which lurch deftly.
Return to shared *****, directly, swiftly. Freshly.

Thread knuckles into notches of your spine,
you were mine.
Held down as carotid fought hard,
to keep open your eye.
Staring vivid as clouds overtook.
I can taste you through your musk,
hear the quivering in your thigh.

Stomach acids crawled into your nose,
and petals bloom. Belly aflame,
throat bleat with each beat.
As vision tunneled from expanse
to pinhole spindle of our room.
Bared teeth like a wild animal,
eyes wide with excitement.

If you could breathe a word your smile soon'd fade.
Porcelain comtesse *** undress with maroon'd face.

I am only an author of a voice to silence your worry.
Listening is not my virtue, it's bloviating my lure-y.
An appeal to be appealing has left me reeling
For lucidity in a city that has forgotten who I am
Which is me.

I am only an author of a voice so silent, so worry.
I hate to live in my mind, yet it is the ***** I scurry.
From my mind's eye's **** I suckle with fury.
Silver-tongue, golden-throated, and nothing else
To be spoke of. With my chest swelling; pleurae
booming with the boon of pride to ensure he
is able to amount to another morning rise.
Which is me.

Since when have I become so masturbatory.
They say youth is self-absorbed and centered.
So full of themselves they think of fireworks and glory.
But what of youth misspent, snuffed whence
They were in the first chapters of their story.
The forgotten rue. The golden rule.
Somewhat few, follow that truth.
Which is me.

Which is me, the me I knew, or what others, to me, show.
If my personality is borderline, and that is disorderly.
How is my fin not to be written as a tragedy?
Will they paint my funeral with superfluous filigree.
Recite a remembered, and cold opened eulogy.
For a man they did not know.
For a me I did not know.
Which is me?
The me I knew?
Or what others, to me,
did hew?

"Debase me!" I say
Burn me alive, for I did not live.
I stole from you, my cherished youth.
I am only an author, let me rejoice in my depression.
My writings are not narcissistic, hardly a confession-
I am a writer that writes what he knows.
My Socratic allegiance agrees that God is wise
And men, surprise, know nothing.
And if men know nothing.
If men know nothing.
If Man knows nothing.
Why are we so full of discovery?

Man may not find themselves but in a quandary.
Mine is this, and it haunts me unjustly.
Which is me?
There's the positive, the plural.
The public, the private.
The reticent and internal,
Jonathan.
But I am awash in my self without knowing myself,
Engulfed in my blood, my bacteria,
lacking opsonin.
I strike at my heart, my mind, and my tendon.
Uncertain of where I end or where I begin.
I am the stalking horse and predator
An author with no editor
Which is why my poetry is so sloppy.
If writers write what they know,
and youth is all for show,
where do those like me stand?
Are we plagiarists that copy?
Chameleons sipping coffee
Bloviating about the bouquet,
Abusing sophistry?
Do I mean to deceive, is it impulse,
is it instinct.
I must ask,
Which is me?

I am only an author of a voice.
Perhaps I am a mute.
So cut my chords, snip them clean.
Let me live a life serene, as I work and doddle
away with my pen mightier than sword.
Which is me? Who am I?
No Greek poets or philosophers
can define.
The one question begged to be answered.
I am me, who I am. Son of God.
King Solomon.
My sin is idolatry. The commonality of my age,
stuck in neutral of self-display.
The world fell into dismay,
split in two,
The Judgment of Solomon.
Will show which is true.
But even in this *******
Of rhyming, scheme, and infatuation
I've still yet answered the question on my heart
Which lettered the head of my distracting start
Who am I?
Which is me?
Narcissus drowned staring at he.
And left the Nymph alone, all alone
Lest I be as pretty, as the rippled reflection
in the Spring dew.
Let me hem, let me haw
Let me hew,
say what I saw,
and I stared at my reflection
staring at you.
Which is me?
Which is us?
This poem has turned
into an omnibus
for a worried mind
to letter and scatter
everything the matter
from a mind stuck
or struck
with ardent aim.
Which is me?
I sound with glee, an answer unto thee
I am an author with a voice.